


The Last Nation

by Razzaroo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, The Last Unicorn - Peter S. Beagle
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 36,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your fellows have gone, sir, and when you walk, there is an echo where they used to be." Norway. The cryptic words of a pixie. A search for the others of his kind. The personifications of nations are all gone...except one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Nation stayed in his countryside and he lived alone.

He was tall and slender, with long sturdy legs and a lean torso. He was very old, much older than he looked, far too old for him to pinpoint where his predecessor ended and he began. He was fair skinned, burning easily in the sun and showing the cold when the snows came, with a head of light gold hair that fell across his face. His hands were rough and calloused; he had killed enemies with them, healed his comrades and fellow Nations, and brought in countless harvests for his people.  His eyes were his only feature that betrayed his age; they were as deep and old as the sea, hinting at life experience that humans could only dream of.

Nations were immortal but it was not in their nature to live alone; they yearned for company, especially of their fellows no matter how much they might bicker. However, while Nations longed for each other, at the same time, relationships can be rocky; while two nations can be close partners in one century, they can be bitter enemies come the next and that bitterness would often get in the way of any new closeness they attempt to form, lurking beneath the surface and curdling relations. Marriage was political and arranged and it was rare for divorced Nations to remain a couple once a political union was dissolved.

The last time he had seen one of his fellows, the world had been very different. Fashions had changed, transport had changed and governments had come and gone in the intervening years. But the Nation had remained, even as Nations fell out of government involvement, even as humans forgot that Nations existed. He had retreated from his capital; afraid of possible repercussions of humans remembering him, now he lived in the countryside, a forest behind his house and fjord in front of it. Generations of animals had lived and loved and died in the forest and villagers had lived and loved and come and gone in the village on the shores of the fjord.

Through it all, the Nation remained.

 

* * *

 

On a cold, clear morning in the early spring, not long after the last of the snow melted, outsiders came to his forest. The Nation followed them, lurking paces behind, using trees and shrubs as cover; he moved so cautiously and carefully that he was confident that they had no inkling that he was there.

The outsiders were a man and a woman, wrapped in jackets and scarves, walking hand in hand. The sight of them filled the Nation’s heart with a feeling of tenderness that meant he knew they were his. Alongside that tenderness was a strange pang of hurt, a grip of loneliness that reminded him of his longing for another Nation. He never let ordinary humans see him for too long any more, for fear that some part of them would recognise him for what he really was.

“This forest is so cool!” the woman cooed, rubbing her arms slightly against the remains of the winter chill, “You can, like, tell no one’s been here for years.”

The man nodded, his face more solemn than hers, “Yeah. I dunno if I like it much though. It feels too…ancient. I dunno. Like it belongs to old or like it has a life of its own.”

The woman playfully punched his arm, “You mean like a Nation?”

“Hey, don’t laugh,” he said defensively, “Granddad swears every country had its own personification. He even showed me proof, ages ago.”

“Granddad’s gone loopy. If countries had personifications or spirits or whatever they’d be ancient; like Rome ancient. And they’d be long gone, just like Rome.”

“Yeah? You’ve seen Granddad’s photos from when he was a politician. And all those archive photos he copied. That’s pretty creepy.”

“Coincidence,” she waved her hand, “Or some of them aren’t as old as he says. You’re so gullible. I’ve seen those same photos and read all those stories about Nations but that’s all they are: kid stories to make kids all patriotic and stuff.”

The man paused, “Maybe so but Granddad always gets sad when he hears those stories. All nostalgic and stuff.”

“Anything from when he was young makes him sad.”

“But Nation stories make him cry,” he paused again, “I don’t think he told you the same things as me. You saw photos, yeah, but he used to tell me stories. And he told me one of when he met someone he said was a Nation, a young guy. You know he never really liked people younger than him but the way he spoke about this guy…he loved him, the same way someone loves their queen and country.”

The woman’s face soured, “This place has made you go all weird. Maybe we should go back.”

The man blinked and the Nation stepped back behind a clump of bushes when they turned around.

“You not feeling well?”

“No,” the woman said hurriedly, “Let’s go home; we need to help with moving anyway.”

The pair walked in silence back the way they came, reaching out to take the other’s hand again. The Nation only started following once they were well ahead again.

“Where did they all go?” the woman asked, “If Nations were real of course.”

The man shrugged, “How should I know? Fairyland maybe.”

The woman laughed. They’d reached the edge of the forest by now and the man let go of her hand, nudging her out of the tree line.

“You go ahead,” he said, “I just wanna appreciate the view a bit.” The woman raised an eyebrow but she headed off anyway, following a tiny twisting path back down to the village.

The man turned back towards the forest. His face looked lost and a touch sad. The Nation shrank back into the trees, not willing to be seen and suddenly wondering why he was so afraid of his own citizens. They couldn’t hurt him without hurting themselves so surely…

“I’m not sure if you’re real or not,” the man said, his cheeks blushing red, “And I feel really stupid for doing this. But if you are real…take care of yourself. I don’t know if I believe that Nations are real but if you are, I think you might be the last one. I’ve been all over the world and seen a lot of places and no place ever felt like this one.” He took a breath and looked down at the leaf litter, “I guess what I wanna say is good luck and I hope you’re not lonely.”

His cheeks a fierce red with embarrassment, he took off down the hill, his scarf flying. The Nation remained where he stood, watching the pair return to the village, a cool breeze blowing off of the fjord to curl through his hair and chill his bones.

“I might be the last Nation there is…?” he said and they were the first words concerning his kind that he’d said in years.


	2. Chapter 2

His home was a small wooden cabin, glowing gold in the morning sun. The Nation pushed open the door, bypassing the nisse that watched him go, and headed for his living room. A tall, hand carved bookshelf stood against the wall; lining the top shelf were a row of leather bound books.

‘ _It can’t be,’_ he thought to himself, taking down his photo album.

He’d never minded being alone, not as much as the others. He hadn’t minded it because he had his people and he’d always known that there were others like him in the world and that was all he really needed to be content.

‘ _I’d know if the others were gone,’_ he thought, sitting down on his settee with his album, ‘ _We’ve been together for so long; nothing happens to them without my knowing or without it happening to me.’_

He flipped through the pages of his album. A lot of the photos were old, though he couldn’t remember how old. Faces that he hadn’t seen in years look up at him from the pages. He taps his fingers against the pages, his nails clicking slightly on the plastic. That strange yearning had sprung up in his chest again. The feeling scared him. He shoved the album away and tucked his knees under his chin, curling his toes in the soft blanket beneath him. He could hear the nisse in the kitchen, stacking pots and putting them back in their cupboards.

“Maybe it’s time I visited,” the Nation said quietly. He rested his cheek on his knees and watched the nisse in the kitchen, “Danmark must be wondering what’s become of me.”

He stood up again, setting the album aside, and goes to the kitchen, his bare feet whispering against the wooden floors. He stopped by the kitchen sink, leaning over it in order to see better through his window.

“But how could I leave this?” he asked, looking to the nisse and gesturing towards the magnificent view of the fjord, “Even if I were the only Nation left. I know how this country works: every wave, every breath of wind, every heartbeat. What could I ever want from another Nation that I can’t have here?”

The nisse didn’t reply. The Nation looked back out of the window. He could hear a bird above, possibly on the edge of the roof, its song trilling out across the silent garden. The plants were starting to reawaken after the long winter, cautiously putting out their first leaves and green tendrils for the spring.

“But what if they are in trouble?” he mused, more to himself than the nisse, “And they need my help.”

The nisse regards him with a calm, level gaze, “Then you go to them.”

The Nation huffed and left the kitchen, climbing the steep stairs to retreat to his bedroom. The room is a small one, with the same wooden flooring as downstairs. The bed is low with a carved frame and a quilt that he’d embroidered with his own hand. It was a room that was entirely his own; apart from him, the only creatures who came in here were sprites and they never stayed in one place long enough to call it their own. This was a room that he’d crafted for himself, a safe space.

The Nation sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. A sprite floated dreamily through the room, wings trailing, before alighting on his knees.

“The boy didn’t say dead though,” he said, using his finger to smooth down the sprite’s cloud of moon-coloured hair, “Only that Nations had gone somewhere. Only that I’m the only one he’d sensed and only that I might be the only one left.”

The sprite purred at his touch, stretching its neck to press its head against his finger. He started braiding the fringe of his throw, suddenly restless. He felt sick with curiosity and incredibly irritated at the idea that something might have happened to the other Nations that he didn’t know about. He hadn’t felt so in the dark and isolated since the 14th century.

“What do you think?” he said, scooping the sprite into his hands. Its glow illuminated the skin of his cupped palms, “Would you stay or go?”

“Go go,” it trilled, “Always go, never stay! Go go, sit on the wind and go!”

“I can’t ride the wind,” the Nation said, “I’m too big.”

The sprite drifted up, “So follow it. Follow follow where it wants you to go.”

The Nation sighed. The sprite probably hadn’t even been listening; they rarely cared about much more than their travels. His theory was that they were so small, they could only accommodate one thought at a time.

“I won’t go,” he said firmly, “Just because humans haven’t seen us for a while, doesn’t mean we’ve vanished. I can’t be the only one to retreat so much. No, I’ll stay.”

“Why?” the sprite sang, spinning dizzily towards the window, “Why why why?”

“Because I live here,” the Nation said but it was already gone, riding the wind to the next fjord and forest.

He lay back and stretched out on the bed, his heels scrunching the quilt and the throw, rolling onto his side. He tucked his arms underneath the pillow and stared at the bookshelf that stood against his wall, at the vintage lamp that had pride and place on his bedside table, his alarm clock squatting beneath it.

If he left for the other Nations, he’d be away from his safe place, from his retreat. What would happen to it while he was gone…?

He was woken from his doze by the window banging against its frame. He jerked upright, his hair standing upright on one side. The nisse is by the window, drawing the curtains over the pale gold of the early afternoon. It paused when he woke up. The pair of them stared at each other for a moment, the nisse holding the Nation in place with its pupil-less gaze. The Nation’s fingers curled against the quilt.

“But what if they need me?” he whispered.

The nisse blinked, “Then you go to them.”


	3. Chapter 3

The roads tugged the Nation’s feet, pulling him along, taking him from his home. With his canvas bag shouldered, the road took the Nation through his mountains and towns, past villages and lonely farms. The cars that used to use these roads are gone; he didn’t know why they were because there are still humans. But there were more faeries now and no Nations so perhaps that had something to do with it.

Flowers bloomed as he passed them and trees burst into greenery, leaves opening and unfurling like a smile. Everything seemed to become more vibrant in his presence and, when he looked behind, the colours seemed somehow muted. He didn’t remember that happening before.  The animals watched him  and the clouds glided lazily across the sky, lighting up gold and pink as the sun tracked across the sky.

Everywhere he stopped, he looked for his friends, his fellows, the other Nations. But he never felt that connection; he never felt that click in his mind, that tug in his heart. He rarely even realised if he crossed a border, since he never felt that sudden jolt that said he was entering another Nation’s territory.

One afternoon, when the sun was riding high in the blue arch of the sky, he saw an old woman picking wild strawberries. Missing having company, the Nation stopped to watch her. Looking at her lined face and rumpled hands, he wondered if perhaps she remembered Nations. After all, the young man had said his grandfather had met Nations. The woman looked up, her eyes a button blue.

“Oh, hello,” she said, beaming, “Oh, but aren’t you a dishy thing?”

She set down her basket of strawberries and smiled with a gummy mouth. She stepped over the clumps of strawberry plants. He tipped his head to the side, his smile enigmatic. He was more pleased than afraid of her; she saw him and was no threat, as he was strong and fast, whilst she was old and frail.

“Are you lost?” she warbled, “Foreign folk often lose themselves here.”

He sidestepped her concerned hands, “I was hunted before you know,” he told her, “Centuries ago, before your grandmother’s grandmother was born. Men used to think I was wicked somehow, in league with some unnatural power. But I was never caught, except for by another Nation.”

“Steady there,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “The mud’s still wet from the frost; you may slip and twist one of those long legs.” She looked him up and down with those button bright eyes, “Oh, but you are a thin thing. Let’s take you home and feed you up a little, my boy.”

“Boy?” The Nation said, “Boy? Is that all you see? A skinny homeless human boy with dust in his hair and thin cheeks?” He felt strangely offended, “I’m older than you can dream of, older than your greatest grandmother.”

Had humans really become so ignorant that they didn’t feel how ancient Nations were? Assuming that he was a boy, as if he were her grandson she hadn’t seen in years.

For a moment, they stared at each other, her old eyes watching his ancient ones. Then, with a final huff, he hopped over the strawberry plants and bolted, his bag banging against his back. He left behind a confused old woman, who picked up her basket of strawberries and cried as if she had lost something, but she couldn’t remember what it was she had lost.

From that afternoon, the Nation made a point of trying to avoid humans. The woman had meant no offence and he knew it but the confirmation that he wasn’t recognised for what he was made his stomach feel sunken and hollow. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t left his cabin by the fjord.

He stopped one late afternoon by a stream; he was sure the stream had a name but he didn’t know it and the foreign language signs were of very little help. While Nations could understand most spoken languages, written language remained a mystery to them unless they undertook the effort to learn it. He stripped off his boots and socks and lay on his back with his feet in the water. He folded his arms behind his head and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his skin.

A pixie tottered into view and folded onto the grass alongside him. Her skin was a dark, dusky blue and her wings had the texture of velvet, veined with silk. She plucked flowers and saluted him with long fingers.

“Go to the water so very near,” she said, “The river will be your eyes and ears.”

The Nation watched her, “Careful of the wind, pixie. It might snatch your wings. What are you doing here?”

“And so I said, “The mountain glen, I’d seek at morning early,” she replied, “While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley.”

Her eyes gleamed like chips of moonlight. The Nation sat up, brushing twigs from his hair, “Do you know who I am, pixie?”

“My lily of the lamplight,” she said, flicking his hair, “My own Lili Marlene.” She stood up and hopped from stone to stone in the stream.

“Do you know my name?” he asked, shifting so he was kneeling rather than sitting.

“Ginny oh Ginny, mein Herz ist so schwer,” she squatted on a rock, the tips of her wings trailing in the water, “Maria’s not an asset to the abbey.”

The Nation sighed. While he knew that pixies tended to speak only in snatches of songs and poetry, he had managed to have a coherent conversation with one before. Clearly, this one would be more difficult.

The pixie’s eyes twinkled and she stood up straight again, balancing on one toe on the rock, somehow managing to stay perfectly still, “Go and catch a falling star, get with child a mandrake root, tell me where all past years are or who cleft the Devil’s foot.”

He sighed again and pulled his socks and boots back on before standing up, slinging his pack back over his shoulders. It served him right, really; pixies loathed to give a straight answer, even if they knew it. Not that they were malicious creatures. It just wasn’t in their nature to be straight forward easily. The pixie danced ahead of him.

“Lon-dubh a' seinn ann an dubhar na h-oidhche,” she sang, “Tog do sgiathan brist' is èirigh suas.”

“You are a well travelled little thing, aren’t you?” the Nation mused, “But you probably don’t know who I’m looking for. Not many people seem to.”

She followed him along the stream, filling the silence with songs and poems and even the occasional repeated conversation. Her voice tinkled like a bell. When the sun starting sinking below the horizon, her wings buzzed furiously and lifted her off the ground; she hovered in front of his face, leaning in to kiss his nose.

“Good night, sweetheart,” she  trilled, “Til we meet tomorrow. Good night sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow.”

“Farvel,” the Nation said, “I hope you find someone else to sing to.”

Instead of leaving, she instead kissed his cheeks twice and continued hovering near him, hands clutching at his jacket.

“If only one little wish that I wish comes true, I know that the angels will watch over you,” she said, a little nervously. And then, clear as a bell, she carried on, “Nation: A large body of people united by common descent, history, culture, or language, inhabiting a particular state or territory. Personification: a figure intended to represent an abstract quality.”

The Nation froze, “What did you say?”

The pixie just hummed. The Nation grabbed at her hand.

“You know me?” he said, stunned, “You actually know me?” The pixie took hold of his other hand and spun in the air, turning them in a merry dance, “Pixie, if you know who I am, tell me if you’ve seen the others. Tell me what happened to them, if anything did, and where I can find them again. Where have they gone?”

“If I could, then I would, I’ll go wherever you will go,” she said and then shook her head, “No listen; not to this but listen. Your fellows have gone, sir, and when you walk, there is an echo where they used to be.”

“ _Why_ have they gone?”

“Listen, listen,” her grip on his hands tightened, her voice filled with urgency, “The Unicorn beat the lion to the crown and drove the Nations, all of them, into the arms of his king.”

“Unicorn? When? _Why?”_

“The unicorn is a legendary animal that has been described since antiquity as a beast with a large, spiralling, pointed horn on its forehead,” the pixie recited, “I saw it, huge and as white as sea foam with a horn that glowed like the moon and stars. His eyes! Oh, they suck you down, like a whirlpool in a storm churned sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam; when that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home.”

The Nation stared at her. Her moonlit eyes bunched up in a smile before she kissed him one last time and let go of his hands.

“Auf wiederseh’n, auf wiederseh’n, we’ll meet again sweetheart,” she said, her voice growing faint as she rose above the trees, “Don’t let the teardrops start. Follow me, follow me down.”

The Nation watched her go. His fellows had gone…? Faeries couldn’t lie so there must have been some grain of truth to it. But she hadn’t told him where they’d gone or why they’d gone; the only answer he had was about a unicorn.

For a long time he walked, the pixie’s words ringing in his head. The sun sank deep beneath the horizon, turning the clouds orange, gold and red. When the first stars began breaking through the pink of the sky, the Nation shrugged his pack off and unrolled the thick blanket he’d brought. Aching feet and exhausted legs made him weary and he curled in the shelter of a stone wall, wrapped in thick wool, and fell asleep.

Had he not been so tired, his exhaustion so deep rooted in aching muscles and aching worries, he would probably have woken up at the sound of rolling wheels. But he was deep asleep, lost in dreams of home and family and an all consuming warmth that soaks into the heart, and so he didn’t wake, even when the wheels stopped right in front of him.

“Well, well,” an old voice wheezed above him, “Here I thought the last of them was long gone.”

The voice belonged to an old man, a faery, with a stooped back and a beard long enough to tie around his waist. He drove a wagon pulled by a black, hairless horse with river reeds for a mane. Eight other wagons followed behind. The first wagon had emblazoned on patchy black curtains: _The Marvellous Mercury’s Menagerie of Myths._ He looked back at the other wagons and beckoned with a hand that flashed with rings.

“What on Earth was worth stopping for?” asked the one from the second wagon, a tall reedy figure with round teeth.

“What do you say, Alaric?” the bearded faery asked, “Who do you think is sleeping there?”

Alaric spat on the road, “Lost boy. Feed him to the dragon and let’s be off.” He chuckled darkly.

“Idiot,”  the bearded faery snapped before turning to the third one, a shorter man with dark brown hair and slender shoulders, “What do you think, Marian? What do you see there with your second sight?”

Alaric sniggered and elbowed the third man, Marian, in the ribs. Marian looked down at the Nation with mournful eyes. The bearded faery seized his lapels and shook him, “Answer me, brat!”

“I see a young man,” he said, voice as soft as his eyes, “Just a normal human.”

Mercury looked at him and shook his head, “You’re an idiot too and twice as bad as Alaric because you’re a liar too. So he’s a lost human man. I want him. The last cage is empty.”

“Let me get a rope,” Alaric said but Mercury stopped him before he could go.

“No rope,” he said firmly, “The only rope he would submit to is the rope made to bind down Fenrir and we daren’t unravel it before Ragnarok. Lift him into the cage.”

Alaric’s face crumpled in a scowl, “What if he wakes up?”

“Put a sleep spell on him!” Mercury snapped, “Are you a fey or a fool?” He glared and both Marian and Alaric, “Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only competent one here. And both of you know this; should any harm come to him, the hand that caused it shall be turned to stone.”

At that, he swept off back to his wagon. Alaric spat on the road again before turning off to prepare the cage. Only Marian remained for a moment, looking down at the Nation with sad, knowing eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

The wagons of Mercury’s Menagerie looked like small, squat black pots by daylight. The patched curtains were drawn back and tied with thin white ribbons. They stood in a narrow ring with Mercury’s own wagon taking pride of place in the centre; it was like a large grassy eye with a shabby pupil. Mercury himself had not been seen in the daylight hours.

The Nation sat back and watched as the reedy faery, Alaric, checked the locks on cages. He prodded at doors, tugged on padlocks, and pressed against transparent barriers. The Nation was locked in the smallest cage with only his heavy blanket for company; his pack had been taken from him as he slept. The cage wasn’t tall enough for him to stand comfortably so he sat, legs tucked beneath him, watching the ribbons flutter in the slow breeze. A small crowd was gathering just outside of the circle, in front of a worn banner.

“It isn’t much, is it?” the voice plucked the Nation from his musings. He got to his knees and edged towards the end of the cage.

A young man stood leaning against the wooden frame. For all accounts, he was remarkably average looking, with dark hair and olive skin, eyes as bright and black as beetles. If it weren’t for the pointed tips of his ears, the Nation would have assumed that he was a mere human man. Alaric had started to lead the small crowd around the cages, pausing at each one as he did.

“This here,” he announced at the first cage, “Is the basilisk. The king of all serpents, hatched from a snake’s egg incubated by a cockerel, the basilisk can kill with just one look from its fierce eyes.” He puffed up his chest, “This one, Mercury plucked from beneath its father’s breast, from the moment it hatched, and since that day, it has never seen the light of the sun. Mercury braved its fierce fangs and face and covered its eyes with a blindfold, taming it from birth.”

“Tell me what your eyes see,” the man said quietly, “Look at this collection and tell me what you truly see.”

“The wyvern!” Alaric declared, voice clanging like a poorly made bell, “Dragon’s head, bat’s wings, serpent’s tail. It was not, as the story goes, a dragon that St. George battled to save the princess but a wyvern, fat on the flesh of young maiden’s. This one was dumb enough to believe my colleague for a maiden, though that may say more about the boy’s looks than it does about the wyvern’s eyes.”

A titter ran through the crowd at that and the man blushed. The Nation ignored him and instead squinted through the bars.

“They must be blind,” he said, “That’s no wyvern; it’s just a lizard and a pretty pathetic one at that.”

The man gave the Nation a sideways look, “What about the next one?”

“The Roc, you mean,” the Nation looked, “Nothing more than a lonely pigeon; if you’re going to keep a pigeon, at least have two. If Sinbad had had to face _him_ , the story would be short one.”

“Ratatoskr,” Alaric gestured at the third cage, “Messenger for Nidhoggr, he would race up and down the World Tree to deliver messages from the root-gnawing wyrm to the great eagle in the high branches. Of course, he must be grateful for the rest that Mercury offers here, eh?”

Ratatoskr was truly nothing more than a mere squirrel, perched on bleached log, sitting hunched over a small pile of nuts. The Nation raised an eyebrow. The crowd seemed to be in awe of nothing but a lizard, a pigeon, a python and a squirrel. And yet, when he glanced out of the corner of his eye, he could see looming shadows over each imprisoned animal: a blindfolded basilisk snapping at iron bars; a wyvern spitting fire; a roc shrieking at slivers of sky; the squirrel suddenly huge, a roll of paper around its dark neck. The shadow and the reality seemed to blend into one creature.

“This is strange magic,” the Nation murmured whilst Alaric trumpeted a story of an each-uisge, a thin horse peering at him through the bars, “Is it glamour or something more?”

The man grinned, “I knew it would be harder to pull the wool over your eyes; you must be older than all three of us combined and then some. You might just be the mistake that undoes the old man’s trickery.”

A child in the crowd piped up, “If it can only survive in water, how is it still living here?”

“There is one thing that it can live on, outside of the water,” Alaric said gravely, the shadow of a dark dripping animal converging with the horse for a moment, “It has a fondness for human hearts. Would a fair lady be willing to offer it her own?” His laugh was thick and sticky.

“I’ve known a lot of horses in my time,” the Nation said, “And not one ate hearts. Your master Mercury can’t make and mould things, can he?”

“No,” the man replied, “His skills are in disguise and even then, he is weaker than even the most powerless sprite. His glamours depend on people wanting to believe them. He draws in humans mostly, people who have never seen most of the creatures he claims to display.”

The Nation huffed, “Just a few short years ago, he was a mere myth himself to humans. His head must have gotten too big for his neck.”

The man shrugged, “I suppose. I don’t think he’s ever been truly powerful. He can’t coax flowers into bloom but he can fool the eyes of people who would mistake a roc for an overgrown eagle, Ratatoskr for someone’s pet and a Nation for a homeless man.”

The Nation went rigid and stared at the man. The man’s smile was soft and knowing, his eyes deeper than they had right to be.

“I know what you are,” he said, “I don’t know _who_ you are but I’d know what you are, even if you dressed in rags.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Marian, the halfling,” the man said. He turned sheepish, “Not that that means much to you.”

“Unless they’re my own,” the Nation explained, “The names of most humans don’t mean much to me.”

Marian came very close to protesting that he wasn’t completely human, whether he was one of the Nation’s own or not, but something in his liver told him it would be pointless. Instead, he offered a sad, rather pathetic shrug, “I usually entertain people before Alaric’s ready for the show. You know, small, sleight of hand tricks that the fey yawn at but humans adore. I like trying to leave a suggestion that I could work bigger magic if I wanted.”

Looking at him, the Nation doubted whether this was true but decided against voicing it. No doubt that he himself could perform far more complex and powerful magic but he didn’t mention that either; this wasn’t a place to brag about magical prowess.

“It’s not such bad work,” he said instead.

“No,” Marian said, “But I’ll have much better, one day.”

“Of course. We don’t go through our whole lives with only one job.”

Marian gave him an odd look but didn’t say anything to contradict him. The Nation looked back across the circle. Alaric had stopped beside a cage containing a deer, this one with golden antlers and hooves of bronze. The Nation looked closer, as he had the others, and found that this illusion didn’t fade to reveal a normal buck beneath it.

“This one is different.”

“Only her,” Marian said, nodding, “But it’s not because Mercury’s magic is woven tighter over her. Deer are proud creatures anyway and are likely to believe anything that makes them seem more than they are; if Mercury says she’s sacred to the goddess Artemis, then the poor old deer will believe him and it’s belief that makes Mercury’s magic hold.”

“The Ceryneian Hind,” Alaric said proudly, “Artemis’s own deer. It’s the antlers that set her apart from others of her kind; not many does with antlers, and gold ones besides. Faster than an arrow, the hero Heracles was set to capture her by the jealous Hera, who hoped that it would anger Artemis enough that the virgin goddess would deal with Zeus’s bastard better than the Nemean Lion.” He coughed slightly, “She was brought to King Eurystheus, who was too slow to hold her.”

The deer preened herself and was the only creature who held her ahead aloft. The Nation turned his head to the cage nearest his, pitying the deer too much.

He felt the breath leave his lungs, as if sucked out of him by some unseen force. A woman crouched in the cage. She was wearing a tattered, Greek style toga and her hands were the colour of brass. She lifted her head and smiled at him, her lips pulling back over a mouth of fangs. A mass of red snakes curled around her head in place of hair. Like the python, her eyes were covered.

“She is real,” the Nation whispered, “She’s the gorgon Stheno.”

He recognised her from stories, from paintings and drawings shown to him by another Nation, Greece himself, years ago. They’d always bonded over their love of their own mythologies.

“Yes,” Marian breathed, “Old Mercury found her while she was asleep, her breath whistling pipe music.” He shuddered and shrank against the Nation’s cage, “Oh, I wish he’d never picked her up.”

“Sister of Medusa,” Alaric said, standing much further from the Gorgon’s cage than he had the others, “Unlike her little sister Medusa, she and Euryale were made immortal. More ferocious, our beauty here killed more men than her two sisters combined. But she sits here happily now, don’t you, Lovely?” Stheno gnashed her teeth and him and he shrank back further, “Now all that men know of her is the pipe music of her mourning for her sister.”

Stheno snarled and Alaric hurried the crowd on. Alaric scowled and Marian turned to leave, wrapping his thin coat closer.

“Don’t worry, friend,” he whispered, “I’ll never be far.”

What the Nation had to worry about, apart from the Gorgon, he wasn’t sure of. His gaze was fixed on those dancing snakes, even while Alaric’s small crowd gathered before him. They peered at him, puzzled and awkward. But there was something else as well; a strange, sweet sadness, as if they recognised him as a friend they had long forgotten.

“My friends,” Alaric said, grinning with those pebbly teeth, “I present to you here not a monster of myth and magic but someone as familiar as your own heartbeats, as always there for you as your own dear mothers.” He cleared his throat, “You now stand before the spirit and heart of your very own Fatherland!”

The Nation didn’t know how Alaric could hope to impress a crowd with such a lacklustre declaration, especially when there was nothing about his appearance that really inspired much wonder or fear, unlike a Gorgon or a wyvern. When he looked up towards the crowd, he saw eyes full of tears, heartbeats fluttering in chests that yearned for something bigger than themselves.

However, whilst they clearly felt some draw to him, the Nation didn’t feel anything towards any of them. He couldn’t help but stare, feeling bewildered, even as some people instinctively leant in closer.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Alaric’s voice broke the tenuous string binding the Nation to the crowd, “You may ask, “What can possibly top my Nation, the one thing that holds my heart and loyalty above all else?” To which I say…something that bring a Nation to its knees.”

He led the reluctant crowd away from the Nation’s cage and towards the still shrouded cage in the centre of the ring, “Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the greatest pandemic this part of the world ever knew…the Black Death!”

He yanked the curtain away and even the Nation couldn’t resist the urge to look in. Huddled in the middle of the cage was a black heap. The Nation leant forward in curiosity right as the heap lifted its head. A skeletal face looked back at him and a bony hand reached for a twisted broom. The Nation recoiled, shrinking back against the cage, memories flooding his mind. He could feel a fever climbing his neck and buboes swelling up in his skin, his muscles cramping, necrosis starting to sink its teeth into his fingers. He swallowed, hot tears of fear welling up in his eyes as memories of being sick and dying alone overwhelm him, the plague returning to ravage his body and strip him of his health. He saw, in his mind’s eye, his people falling ill, his villages full of corpses and his capital a ghost town. He huddled in the corner of his cage and squeezed his eyes shut. Through a thick fog, he heard the crowd gasp and recoil as Pesta reached out to sweep them under her rug.

“Does no one want to have a dance?” Alaric called out before collapsing into cackling laughter.

The Nation opened his eyes. He could see humans leaving the ring, some hand in hand, some running and some walking surprisingly calmly. Once the last person is out of sight, the door swung open and Pesta clambered down. The skeletal face melted away as skin smoothed over the skull and the bony hands filled out; only the black robe remained. The twisted broom became a staff.

“I enjoyed that,” Mercury said, stroking his beard with one hand, “I love becoming something more than myself.”

Alaric’s pebbly smile had contorted into a scowl, “Maybe you should focus less on theatrics and more on your bindings. I could _feel_ that Gorgon unravelling them this time. The walls are wearing thin, Mercury.”

“Nonsense,” Mercury said dismissively, leaning on his staff, “She won’t run. I can turn her into stone if need be.” He chuckled darkly.

Alaric muttered something under his breath and stomped off to his wagon. Mercury rolled his eyes. He moved from cage to cage, checking locks and smoothing over ripples in his enchantments, covering patches and stitching holes.

“Not yet, my lovely,” he said, knocking the Gorgon’s bars with his staff, “Not yet. You’re my girl for a little while longer.”

Stheno hissed angrily but Mercury didn’t react. The Nation felt the air tighten and stretch as Mercury pulled his magic over her cage, strengthening the bonds that held her captive. When he was done, he turned towards the Nation.

“You were spooked then, eh?” he said, his voice filled with mirth, “Thought the Black Death had come back to claim you now, didn’t you?” He laughed, “It’s no paltry glamour that convinces a Nation that his death is upon him, is it? I’ll be telling Marian that, trust me.”

“And I suppose you’ll tell me it’s no carnival trick holding the lady Stheno in her cage as well?” the Nation said dryly, scratching the back of his neck, “Don’t let your head get too big; she might pop it like a cherry when she breaks free.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be the death of me,” Mercury said, waving a hand, “She’s that kind of lady. But she’ll live forever and remember for all that time who held her so my immortality is assured.” He looked the Nation over, “Not that I can say the same for you, seeing as how you were wandering the roads and basically inviting your very special death to find you.”

The Nation sat forward again, on his knees, “Do you mean The Unicorn?”

“The Unicorn of King Merari,” Mercury’s hand found his beard again, “You know of it, eh? Well, it can’t have every Nation. I deserve at least one, don’t you think?”

The Nation huffed, slightly disgusted. Quite frankly, he was rather sick of being treated like someone’s property; he’d had enough of that centuries before and would much rather move on.

“Typical,” he said, “Act like you know so much better if you will but I suggest that you let Stheno go before she frees herself; if you do, she might decide to spare you. And I suggest you let me go as well. I am not your Nation. I don’t belong to anyone but myself and my people.”

A storm cloud suddenly thundered behind Mercury’s eyes, “Why should I give up something that was just lying around for me to take it? If you really belong to your people, you wouldn’t have left them now, would you? Do you really think that I would bend to the will of a human’s Nation?” He blew steam from his nose, “If you did, then Nations deserved what they got; if they’re like you, they were all fools!”

“If you’re so powerful, why stick to small carnival magic?” the Nation asked, keeping his voice as cool as possible, “Why not join a queen’s court or tame real myths and monsters?”

Mercury jabbed a finger at the Nation’s cage and struck the bars with his staff, making the metal sing, “Because I don’t want to. I want to do many things. I want to give Alaric a brain of his own in that thick skull. I want Marian to start showing that magic I pay him to perform. I _want,”_ he continued through gritted teeth, “To make a modern Prometheus out of you and have the each-uisge tear your liver out once a day.”

For a moment, the old faery stood there fuming whilst the Nation remained impassive. That fury didn’t last long and soon Mercury’s scowl collapsed into an expression of mirth.

“You may criticise,” he said, “But I tricked you twice today. You think those humans knew who you were?” A cackle, “Of course not! It takes faery magic these days for humans to feel that pull at the heartstrings that all Nations used to stir in their chests. The only other creature in the world who would recognise you is the Unicorn and I’ll bet that you’d prefer to be here than impaled on the horn of that beast.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Nation was sat staring at the first stars when Marian returned, slipping between the cages as an oil-slick shadow. The Nation fixed him with a glare when he stopped by his cage, an apologetic smile plastered across his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me the old horror had put a glamour on me too?”

Marian didn’t even blink, “I assumed that, being as old as you are, you’d be able to tell for yourself.”

The Nation’s eyes hardened to chips of dark blue ice, “As old as I am, I know not to make many assumptions.”

Marian shrugged. “I would have come to you sooner,” he said, changing the topic, “But Alaric wanted a riddle competition before he slept. We should be safe; he sleeps like a stone.”

The Nation felt the ice melt from his eyes and his shoulders slumped, “No one’s ever put a spell on me before.”

“Oh, I know how you feel,” Marian said, “Not that anyone’s put a spell on me, of course. I’m like a black hole that sucks all magic away and it vanishes into nowhere.” He coughed, “But I don’t suppose that would really affect how you think of me.”

“I think I can trust you,” the Nation said, “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Marian said, “If I don’t help you, who would I help?”

The pigeon cooed in its sleep and the squirrel’s tail twitched. The only other creature still awake was Stheno and she sat perfectly still, listening to every word. The deer huffed in her sleep, the only animal truly content. Marian pushed back his sleeves. The Nation thought back to Mercury’s words: ‘ _I want Marian to start showing that magic I pay him to perform.’_

“You’re going to cast something?”

Marian nodded, eyes heavy with concentration. His voice rustled and the bars disappeared. The grey wood beneath the Nation was replaced by solid, honey coloured wood and the Nation found himself inhaling the sweet scent of polish, the smell of his books. He had no idea how Marian had done it but he was home! He stood up and his head crashed against the roof of the cage. The throbbing pain brought him back to reality.

“Oh, heavens, I’m sorry!” Marian exclaimed, “I honestly thought that would free you!”

“Well,” the Nation said, rubbing the tender spot on his head. The cage came back into focus, his honey coloured cabin fading, “You made the bars vanish.”

Marian’s smile was weak as watery soup. He whispered something secret and soft and then whistles, cold and high. For a moment, nothing happened. As the Nation watched, splinters of cold push through the wood of the cage, sharp and terrible. They stretched towards him, gleaming in the moon. Behind him, he felt them pushing against his back, pricking his skin.

“Marian,” he said, panic entering his voice as the splinters break his skin, more coming towards his face, “Marian!”

Marian looked up and recoiled, “Oh, no, no, no.” He closed his hands into fists and the splinters falter slightly. He drew his hands in close to his body and the splinters stopped entirely, just inches from the tip of the Nation’s nose.

“Try again,” the Nation said faintly, “You’ve proved you can do magic. Try again?”

Marian held up one hand, “I won’t risk killing you, my friend.” He produced a ring of keys from his pocket, “For now, we’ll stick to more mundane methods.”

The Nation was all too aware of the splinters digging into his back and of the eyes of every beast and creature of the carnival watching. Even the deer was watching, her head tilted. Stheno shifted and the night shifted with her. Marian worked the key in the heavy lock, even as the cage sniggered at him. The Nation could practically see his blush. He twisted the key and the lock clicked off of the door, falling heavily.

“Step down, my friend,” he declared, swinging the cage open, “You are free!”

The Nation stood and stepped down from the cage. Almost immediately, he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders as the glamour dissolved. He tossed his hair out of his face, missing his cross clip.

“You’re more…” Marian swallowed, “You’re more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Marian looked down at his scuffed boots, “I don’t know.”

Alaric’s voice drifted across the circle, “Marian! What were you told about sneaking out? You are like a child!”

The Nation retreated into the shadow of the cage. His pack hung on the door, suspended on a nail with a loop of leather. Unable to spot the Nation from where he stood behind the cage, Alaric only saw an empty wagon at Marian, keys still in hand.

The older faery’s face twisted in anger, “You deceitful brat! Mercury will strap you to the roots of the World Tree to give a meal to Nidhoggr!” He turned, heading towards Mercury’s darkened wagon.

Marian looked to where the Nation peered out at him and mouthed “ _Run!”_ before he leapt at Alaric, the force of his leap knocking the reedy faery to the ground.

“You’re nothing but a river reed!” Marian snarled, breathless, “I’ll turn you into panpipes! I’ll replace your liver with rocks!”

“You’re delusional!” Alaric snapped. He seized hold of Marian’s shoulders and shoved him down, pinning him with his knees, “You couldn’t turn milk into butter. You couldn’t kindle a flame from a flint. The only impossible thing you can do is lie and that isn’t of any skill of your own; it’s because your father was human!”

The Nation glanced over his shoulder but didn’t intervene. He’d retrieved the discarded keys and was at the horse’s cage. The horse nickered as he unlocked the heavy lock, throwing the door wide. The animal stepped down but the Nation already moved on, releasing the pigeon and then the squirrel. The lizard rustled through the grass when it was set free and the python moved with a slow, easy grace. The only animal that did not immediately seize freedom was the deer, who snuffed and snorted and stamped at the floor of the cage.

“Step down, lady,” the Nation whispered, “Artemis has turned her face away. Return to your woods and fashion some horns from oak branches.”

The Gorgon cackled at that and the clouds curdled; the deer leapt down at that, springing away into the forest. The snakes on her head hissed and spat. She was ready to be free. Behind the Nation, Marian snatched up a rock and clubbed Alaric over the head, knocking him off. The man scrambled up, his coat slightly torn. The Nation walked towards the Gorgon’s cage, drawn in by a strange, invisible cord in his throat.

“Don’t!” Marian shrieked, “You can’t let her free! She’ll turn you to stone and keep you for herself! Don’t free her!”

The Nation stood in front of the Gorgon’s cage. The snakes hissed and danced. ‘ _Set her free’_ they seemed to say, ‘ _She will have you. Set her free.’_

The Nation shrank back a little but he reached out and twisted the key in the lock. The door opened slowly, as if pulled by some invisible hand, and the Gorgon stepped down. She was as regal as any noble lady. She turned to the Nation, still blindfolded, and smiled. Stheno’s hand flashed bronze in the pale moonlight as she shoved the Nation aside, heading towards Marian and Alaric.

“No!” the Nation shouted. He snatched his birch wand from his pack and slashed at the air with it. An arc of pale blue swung across the night and Marian was jerked to the side away from her. Stheno snarled.

The Nation got to his feet, a little winded, and swept his wand again, erecting a barrier between Stheno and Marian. Marian covered his head with his hands and cowered on the ground before her. Stheno leapt over him, catching slightly on the protective bubble the Nation had cast over him.

“Not alone!” Mercury screamed joyously, “You never could have done a thing on your own! You were both mine!”

The Gorgon laughed and descended upon Mercury, claws extended. The night turned red. Marian cautiously stood up, slowly and afraid. The Nation picked up his pack and went to the younger man’s side. Marian’s eyes were wide.

“Come with me,” the Nation said, lightly touching his arm, “Come away with me.”

The moon was stained with blood but, to Marian, it didn’t matter. The Nation was as calm and ancient as the moon; Marian would follow him. There was a gentle hand on his arm and he followed where it led. Behind him, he heard Alaric’s scream, cut short.

“He tried to flee,” the Nation explained, “Tried to run. Never run from monsters, Marian. They’ll always catch you, always.”

The Nation’s voice was as gentle as his hand and very calm and detached. Numbly, Marian realised that bloodshed and death couldn’t touch the Nation, not in the same way as it did a human or even a half-faery. Over the centuries, the Nation had developed ways of coping with such horrors. He clung to the Nation’s arm; the Nation stiffened slightly but did not pull away. Together, they walked away from the circle, with the sound of Stheno’s rampage in the remains of Mercury’s Menagerie ringing in their ears.


	6. Chapter 6

Marian cried for hours. He sat with his knees against his chest, hugging himself like a child, sobbing. Every fibre of him trembled, like the last leaves of autumn. They’d stopped by a small pool, a waterfall cascading down from a low cliff, the grassy eye of Mercury’s carnival far behind them.

“Poor Mercury,” he said eventually, his voice shaking, “I should have…I should have done something. Stopped you or stopped her.”

“No,” the Nation said, stripping his shirt off by the water, “That would have just given her a new statue. Besides, old Mercury was prepared for that death. He didn’t need to leave his wagon.”

“And Alaric?”

The Nation paused, his belt hanging from his hand, “An accident.”

Marian shuddered, “How can you be so cold?”

The Nation dropped his belt on top of the pile of his shirt, “I wouldn’t say I’m cold. I just don’t regret what I did. Stheno deserved freedom too, no?”

Marian hesitated, “No, I don’t think she did. Not when she uses that freedom to kill people and turn them to stone.”

“I don’t think she will,” The Nation said, “I think she’ll go home and lie low. But, if you’re worried, don’t be; you never unlocked her cage so you have no need to feel guilty.”

Marian looked away as the Nation stripped the rest of his clothes and stepped into the water. When he looked up again, he’d managed to stem his tears, his cheeks still marked with sticky tracks. The Nation was kneeling in the water, his shoulders shining wet in the sun. While Marian recognised that this was not the representative of his own country, he still felt drawn to him, drawn to his age and his experience, to the feeling of home that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

“How do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what? Bathe?”

“No,” Marian shook his head, “Make me want to be near you.”

“Oh, that,” the Nation paused, “I don’t know. It’s something all Nations do without realising. If I was your homeland, it would probably be much worse.”

Marian fidgeted, “Was it the same when people knew about Nations?”

“No,” the Nation tipped his head and soaked his blond hair in the clear water, “When you know who a Nation is, it lessens for some reason. Think of it like a glamour; if you know the truth, it’s harder to work magic on you.”

Marian nodded. He felt a small twist of bitterness in his chest; it seemed that even Nations could do magic whilst he, someone born into it, could barely control his power enough to light a match. It didn’t seem fair.

“Where did you learn magic?” he asked, “I saw, last night…”

“I don’t remember,” the Nation said, “I’ve known for a long time.” Catching sight of the look on Marian’s face, he hurried on, “But I’ve had a long time to practice. You look rather young.”

Marian scowled and scrubbed at the sticky tracks on his face but the Nation didn’t notice. He was busy scrubbing at his arms, as if he was trying to purge his body of any remnants of Mercury’s glamour. His hair swung forward over his face, unrestrained by his gold pin which sat glinting by his clothes. Marian fidgeted; some deep, lost part of him wanted to plunge into that pool and throw his arms around the Nation’s neck. That part of his scared him and he squashed it down, reminding it that the Nation was not his and, besides, they barely knew each other.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“I’m going to look for my friends,” the Nation said, “The other Nations.” He peered at Marian through strings of blond hair, “Have you met any in your travels?”

“No, I’ve never met anyone like you,” Marian replied, “Not once.”

“Oh,” the Nation sounded slightly disappointed. He lay back in the water and the sun danced merrily over the pattern of his ribs. When he got out, the Nation sat on the sun warmed rocks nearby, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. Marian gathered up the Nations things from their spot on the bank and took them to him.

“ _Tusen takk,”_ the Nation said, holding his pack on his lap.

“Do you have a name?” Marian asked, crouching beside the Nation on the rock.

The Nation glanced at him, “Yes.”

Marian waited but the Nation didn’t continue. Instead, he took out his wand, examining it in the sunlight. A thin crack had appeared down the side and he huffed; he probably wouldn’t have time to whittle a new one, if he could even find the appropriate wood.

“What?” he asked when he realised Marian was still watching him.

“What’s your name?”

“I can’t just tell anyone my name.”

“You know mine!” Marian protested.

“Yes,” the Nation said slowly, “But you didn’t have to give it. And neither do I.”

“All right, fine,” Marian said, “Is there anything else that you need to know?”

“Yes,” the Nation said, stashing his wand back in his pack, “A pixie told me about a Unicorn that pushed all the other Nations ahead of him. And old Mercury mentioned a King Merari. Do you know anything about them?”

Marian’s mouth quickly bent into a small smile, “I know of King Merari. They say he rules over a court that’s empty and that the land around him is barren and sour.”

“And the Unicorn?”

“There are countless stories about unicorns, my friend,” Marian’s smile lessened slightly when the Nation frowned, “I’ve heard too many tales about Merari’s Unicorn to tell you any real truth. I’ve heard that it’s a true Unicorn; I’ve heard that it is formed out of sea foam. I’m heard that it’s a ghost and I’ve heard that it’s merely an eccentric king’s pet rhino. I’ve heard that the Unicorn owns Merari and that Merari owns the Unicorn and that there’s something that owns both of them at once.” He shrugged, “Countless stories.”

The Nation shuddered and grabbed at his shirt, pulling it on over his head, matting his wet hair. Marian turned away again as the Nation dressed.

“Is that where you’re going?” he asked, “To Merari and his beast?”

“I am,” the Nation said, his belt clinking, “It’s the only clue I’ve been given. I have to see if anything comes of it, yes?”

He put his pack on his shoulders again and Marian leapt up to follow him as he climbed down from the rock, boots scraping slightly. The Nation raised an eyebrow when he saw the man following him.

“I do owe you for setting me free,” he said, “What is it you want?”

Marian went sheepish, “Take me with you. There’s nothing for me here and I’m sure you won’t be worse off for my company. Two men travelling together must be better than one travelling alone. Take me with you?”

The Nation cocked his head to the side, “You can come, if you like. Though I would have thought that something else would be a better reward than my company.” He paused, “At least, not many people have enjoyed it before, apart from my family.”

Marian’s face fell and turned sad, “I…I don’t think that even you would be able to give me what I really wanted.”

The Nation thought back to Marian’s disastrous attempts at magic in the night and felt the sneaking sense of sympathy beginning to crawl along his throat, “No. Even with all my practice, I can’t give you your magic. I could only give you some of mine but that would be dangerous.”

“I thought as much,” Marian said, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. His fingers curled around his coin purse, “Don’t let yourself worry about it.”

“I’m not,” the Nation said, turning and continuing on his way, Marian on his heels, “Believe me, I’m not.”

He sounded cold and callous and he knew it. But sometimes, the world could be cold and callous, and Nations along with it.


	7. Chapter 7

Marian led the Nation over soft hills that bowed under the weight of sweet-smelling flowers, sprays of hemlock and waving foxgloves. They splashed through streams and rivers, trailed pollen through the grass and trampled thistles underfoot. Marian filled the space between them with chatter, telling the Nation about his parents, about his home in Romania. The Nation interjected once, when Marian asked him if he’d known Romania; the Nation had said he had and then had stayed quiet.

Eventually, they came upon a town. The Nation stopped on the brow of the hill that meandered down to the town, hands gripping the straps of his pack and his teeth working at his lower lip. For once, it was the Nation sticking like glue to Marian’s side rather than the other way around.

“What’s the matter?” Marian asked while the Nation trailed him.

The Nation didn’t answer for a moment. His memory flashed to the old woman in the woods, to the weeping eyes in Mercury’s menagerie, to the boy’s embarrassed flush and sad face in his forest.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, “I’ve just never been brilliant with crowds.”

The town was a small, cosy place. No one seemed to take any notice of the halfling in his patchwork coat and the tall man who followed in his every footstep. The roads were empty of cars, which struck the Nation as odd since every citizen he saw was human.

“Why are there no cars?” the Nation asked.

“Faeries don’t like them,” Marian replied, stepping aside to let a woman with a pram go by, “So there just aren’t as many as you’d think.”

He headed into a small cafe, and the Nation followed him, looking for a table tucked in a corner. Marian picked one near the window, where the sun streamed through, golden and warm. He pulled the chair out for the Nation before sitting down himself.

“Why are we here?” the Nation asked irritably.

“Because I’m hungry,” Marian picked up the menu, “Some of us need to eat.”

The Nation scowled and clung to his pack. The waitress caught sight of them and wandered over, beaming.

“How can I help you both today?” she asked, her brown eyes travelling between the Nation and Marian. Her gaze lingered on the Nation for just a moment longer, as if trying to unravel him and puzzle him out. The Nation met her eyes and she found herself being swallowed up in their depth and age. She looked away.

“Well, I don’t know about my friend here,” Marian said, “But, if it’s not too much trouble, I’ll have myself a coffee with one of your croissants.”

The waitress’s smile widened, “Of course.” She looked back at the Nation again, avoiding his eyes, “Anything for you?”

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

She nodded and then she caught sight of Marian’s ears, “Are you a faery?”

Marian reached up to touch the pointed tip of his right ear, “Half.”

“Wow,” she breathed, “And what happened to your hands?”

Marian moved his hand to examine it. There was a thin white scar running the length of his thumb, vanishing beneath the cuff of his sleeve, “Souvenir from a Gorgon. They’re not the friendliest women.”

“Were you afraid?” she asked, ignoring the Nation’s black mood.

“All the time,” Marian said solemnly, “But fear keeps you young, you know.”

The girl smiled, “I’ll keep it in mind. I won’t be long with your order.”

When she turned her back, Marian felt his heart sink as the Nation turned his glare on him. He looked the Nation in the eye but the contact didn’t last long; he too, had to look away from those ancient eyes.

“You enjoyed that too much,” the Nation said, “I didn’t let you come to chat to waitresses.”

“She had a nice smile,” Marian said, “And anyway, I didn’t talk to her long.”

The Nation’s look still curdled the air. Marian sighed, feeling slightly helpless. He remembered a similar feeling from his childhood, from when his mother used to be disappointed in him.

“Look,” he said, “I know you want to find the others. But I have to eat and sit down and talk to people. Blame my father if you want but I’ve never been good at solitude.”

It was the Nation’s turn to sigh, “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Marian asked when the Nation stood up.

“Bathroom.”

The Nation left Marian at their table alone. Even when the waitress returned, the Nation didn’t. She set the coffee on the table and looked at the Nation’s empty chair, her gaze lingering for a long moment, but she didn’t say anything. Marian smiled and thanked her before stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee.

There was a clatter of hooves on the road outside and Marian heard the waitress sigh and mutter, “Not again.”

Marian looked up, sipping his coffee, steam rising to stick to his face. A trio of centaurs cantered passed the window, hooves pounding against the road. People parted to let them by, like a river around a rock. Marian sat up a little straighter in his seat to watch them go by. The waitress set down her tray and went out to meet them. Marian stood up, still holding his coffee mug, curious as to why the centaurs were here.

“Ajax,” the waitress said, hands on her hips, “Do you need to be so loud?”

The centaur, bulky and tall, with the body of a dark bay workhorse halted in front of her. One hoof pawed at the road. The other two centaurs stopped behind him, one a female with a chestnut body and the other a male just out of the yearling stage, legs still gangly with youth.

“Morning, lassie,” he said, “We disturb the peace again?”

The waitress sniffed, “You could be a little more civilised.”

“We mean no harm, lassie,” Ajax said, “No room for running in the woods, you see.”

The female pawed at the ground, every movement jangling. Marian could see gold hoops around her waist, one of them hung with bells. The younger male basically pranced on the spot, never still for a moment.

“We followed a trace of magic here,” the female said, whisking her tail, “Felt we should come to make sure no Fair Folk sneak in to curdle your milk and snatch your babes.”

The waitress folded her arms, “We appreciate the concern, Atalanta, but we would tell you if there was trouble.”

Atalanta and Ajax exchanged a doubtful look whilst the young one fidgeted between them. Marian finished his coffee before he spoke.

“Many apologies,” he called out, “But that magic may have been my friend and I. I’m a wandering magician and can’t always control my magic.”

Ajax walked forward until he was mere inches away from Marian, breathing down onto the halfling’s face. His hooves, Marian noticed, were easily as big as saucers and were shod to boot. He curled his own toes, nerves shuddering at the idea of being trodden on. Ajax grabbed hold of Marian’s hair and tipped his head to the side.

“You’re no magician,” he said, “You’re nothing more than a faery that can lie.” Still gripping Marian’s hair, he turned, pulling Marian with him. The coffee mug fell and shattered on the ground, “Look here, Ganymede, and see what a faery looks like.”

The younger one, Ganymede, timidly stepped forward to examine Marian closely. He bit his lip and looked up at Ajax.

“He looks like a man,” Ganymede said timidly.

Ajax nodded sternly, “That he does. They all do that.” He seized Marian around the middle and lifted him up, dropping him down onto Atalanta’s back.

Almost immediately, Atalanta started shifting, making it impossible for Marian to climb down safely. The waitress looked panicked, even as Ajax looked back at her, his expression like a father about to reassure his child.

“Ajax, please,” she said shrilly, “He’s a g--”

“Fret not, lassie,” Ajax said, holding up one hand, “We’ll take this lying lout off of your hands and back to the wilds where he belongs.”

On that note, all three centaurs turned. Marian clung to Atalanta’s waist, desperate to keep himself from falling as she reared up. The trio sprang forward and cantered back along the way they came, the waitress running behind screaming for them to stop. They easily left her in the dust, Marian clinging to Atalanta like a child to his mother.

When she stopped and turned to return to the café, shoulders slumped, she was shocked to come face to face with Marian’s companion. He had his pack hanging from his shoulders and held a twisting birch wand in one hand. A raven perched on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Without saying a word, the Nation pressed a handful of coins into her hand and his eyes held her, even as he left her behind and followed the road.

For years afterward, the waitress was haunted by that moment on the road, watching the solitary figure following pounding hoof beats. She could never explain why she stared after the tall man for so long, nor could she help it when she found herself sitting in the window seat in the café, her heart aching.


	8. Chapter 8

The one thing that Marian remembered most clearly from that wild ride into the wood was the ridge of a horse’s spine digging into his tailbone. He wrapped his arms around Atalanta’s waist, cheek pressed between her shoulder blades, breathing in the dusty scent of her flaxen hair. He could hear her laughing. The muscles beneath his legs rippled, spurring her forwards in a powerful canter.

‘ _You see, Papa’_ he thought, ‘ _This is where your temptations get your offspring.’_

The three centaurs slowed to a trot, a bouncing pace that made Marian turn green, before they slowed to an eventual halt. Marian found himself staring down at the leaf littered ground, watching the leaves spin. He’d always hated horseback riding.

“What’s the password?” a thin voice filtered out of a copse of trees.

Ajax stamped his foot, “Ah, now, let’s not have this nonsense again. You know it’s us; there’s no other centaurs in this forest.”

“Humans, Ajax, humans!” the voice cried, “They ride horses, remember?”

Atalanta’s tail whisked in annoyance whilst Ganymede basically leapt with joy. Clearly, he was the only one who remembered what the password was.

“I know it, Ajax,” he said in excited whispers, “You call twice like a roe deer and once like a reindeer.”

Ajax looked disgusted, “I’m not going to stop so low and make such ridiculous sounds! Let us through, you know who it is! What blind moron would mistake a human man on horseback for a centaur? You’d think the lack of horse head would be a giveaway.”

There was a huff in the trees and then the heavy, hanging branches parted and the three centaurs went through. The gap led into a wide clearing, hung with bells and lanterns, a fire bit in the middle. The clearing, however, didn’t smell as hay-sweet as it should; there was a strange smell in the air, both earthy and smoky at the same time. Across the clearing, there was a trail of human footprints through the mud.

Marian sniffed from his perch on Atalanta’s back; for all their pride, it seemed centaurs were more than happy to mingle with humans. Now, if only he had enough control over his magic just to glamour up his ears.

A young centaur stood beside the swinging branches, arms folded over her chest. Her long pale hair was bundled into two braids and her coat was a light gold. She looked irritated.

“Why can’t you just remember the password?” she snapped.

“Oh, Ariadne, centaurs shouldn’t make such ridiculous sounds,” Ajax said, “Besides, this one here might have heard and used it later.”

He seized hold of Marian’s coat and hauled him off of Atalanta’s back. He held Marian up by his coat, his feet a few inches off the ground. Ajax shook him and the nausea crawled up into Marian’s throat again.

“Do you mind, sir?” he asked, mocking politeness, “I’m a little delicate at the moment and I’d hate to lose my coffee over your hooves.”

“Oi, Ajax!” a voice called out, “Why are you bringing humans here? We go to humans, they don’t come to us.”

“He’s no human, Heracles,” Ajax said, tone respectful, “He’s fey. Just look at them ears. And he does magic; stinks of it.”

An older centaur stood up on the other side of the clearing. He was sleek and grey, with brown spots flecking his coat betraying his age. His tail swished as he approached and, by the way he carried himself, Marian knew that he considered himself a leader of this merry herd. When he reached Ajax, he leant down to examine Marian’s face. Marian offered him a sheepish smile.

“Jorth!” he called out, straightening, “Come here, see if the boy’s your kin.”

Marian hoped that his coat could hold out, since he doubted that he’d be let down any time soon. Behind him, he could hear Ganymede wrestling with Ariadne whilst Atalanta settled down alongside another female. There was a sound like snapping twigs and someone pushed aside another curtain of branches.

She was tall; very tall, with broad shoulders and thick hands. She was covered with a light layer of hair and the hair that fell over her shoulder in a hip-length braid was dirty blonde. Two shorter braids framed her face. She was dressed in a light brown shift, covered with a tan deerskin jerkin and a deerskin overskirt. A long cow’s tail coiled around her ankle and the tips of her ears pushed up through her hair. Two stubby horns protruded from her forehead.

She approached Ajax, her feet sinking into the damp ground, and took Marian from him, holding him under the arms. Marian looked away as her green eyes searched him.

“He’s half,” the troll said, her earthy scent filling Marian’s nose and making him dizzy. Her voice was thick with the same accent as the Nation, “Half human and half faery, though I don’t know what breed.” She turned to look at Heracles, “What did you want me to do with him?”

“I’m harmless enough,” Marian said, trying not to babble, “I do carnival magic, nothing more. Nothing to do harm to a company so well known as yours, sir.”

The troll, Jorth, groaned, “Now don’t you go getting any ideas for keeping him, Cap’n. I’m not having a halfling trailing me; I raised my children and don’t fancy raisin’ another.”

“I don’t need raising,” Marian said, turning his nose up, “Kindly put me down, miss.”

Jorth raised her eyebrows and opened her hands, allowing Marian to drop to the floor. He kept himself from sprawling but it was hardly dignified.

“Won’t keep him that long,” a female called out, “I doubt he’d stay interesting for much longer than a day or so. Keep him for that night, Heracles, and send him home in the morning. A little faery magic will be a nice break.”

Jorth threw up her hands and retreated back behind her branches, grumbling. Heracles smiled at the female who’d spoken.

“Are we really that well known, halfling?” Heracles asked, “When you say my company is well known, how well known?”

“Urban legends,” Marian said solemnly, “Mothers tell their children stories of a band of centaurs, warning them to keep from troubling humans lest they face a centaur’s wrath.”

He was shooting in the dark but, from the way Heracles seemed to puff up with pride, he seemed to be hitting all his targets. Jorth snorted from her small, private alcove but no one paid her any mind. The other centaurs were listening intently, even Ganymede and Ariadne who had ceased their wrestling to pay attention.

“How do they speak of us where you’re from?” Atalanta asked.

“Well, the story I know best,” Marian said, sitting on the cool forest ground with his legs folded beneath him, “Is the one pertaining to a certain faery monarch—”

“Merari!” the female who’d spoken to Heracles spat, tossing her mane of black curls, “May his damned tower crumble beneath his feet and throw him to the sea!”

The others all nodded in agreement but Jorth’s cackle came out through the tree branches. She pushed them aside and peered around, grinning at Marian, suddenly looking like the trolls of old.

“Merari indeed,” she said, “Artemis talks big curses but this lot, bless their kind hearts, daren’t face against Merari, even if it were just him against every mare, stallion and foal.”

Artemis shifted slightly and tucked a twisting lock behind her ear. Heracles lay alongside her and patted her shoulder.

“You see, halfling,” he said seriously, “Merari has this Unicorn. Savage beast it is; lights up the whole sky with its horn, meaning there’s no way to hide from it, even at night. Were it not for that monster, we’d have marched Merari to a proper justice for blighting his lands and hearts.”

Jorth laughed again, “Unicorn! What nonsense. Much as I’m found of ye, Heracles, I do think that maybe this Unicorn is born out of a centaur’s insecurity in his place as the wise, fierce horse folk that men both revere and fear. I hear you frettin’ about a Unicorn again, I’ll march you to Merari myself and show that he’s nought but an old faery in his twilight tower.”

“Enough, Jorth,” Heracles thundered, “Whether the Unicorn is a fable or not, Merari is powerful enough to conjure one up out of moonlight and sea foam. We’ll see to him when we’re ready.”

Marian cleared his throat, “If I may, we were all fables and folklore at one point.”

“You might have been” Jorth said darkly, “But there was _always_ someone who knew me.”

On that, she snatched the branches back and was blocked from view again. Ajax and Atalanta fixed their eyes on the canopy whilst Ganymede and Ariadne fidgeted uncomfortably. Heracles offered Marian an apologetic smile.

“You’ll have to forgive Jorth,” he said, “She’s older than us all combined and it makes her bitter at times. But for the most part, she has a good heart. A mother’s heart.”

Marian nodded, uncertain of what to say. He could have pointed out that he knew someone older than even Jorth could imagine but something deep down in his ribcage told him to keep his mouth shut on the topic of the Nation.

“You say you’re a magician?” Artemis said, “What can you conjure?”

“Small things,” Marian said, “Flags to fish, flowers back to seeds, sows ears into silk purses.”

“I once heard of a faery,” piped up Atalanta, “Who could paint images on air and use them to tell old folklore. Can you do something like that?”

After a small pause, Marian said, “I can give it a try.”

For a moment, he sat, wondering how he was going to do this. He was, as his mother had said, hollow-handed; born to magic but unable to use it. He wished the Nation were here; at least then there would be someone here who could wield magic. The centaurs around him watched expectantly.

Just as he was pondering his dilemma, he felt something sprout inside him, like a seedling pushing up through the ground after a lifelong winter. It started somewhere in his liver, he thought. He felt its leaves sprout and vines curl along his bones. He exhaled a deep sigh as that feeling spread throughout him.

“I’m sorry,” he said,  a little dreamily, “I think I must be tired.”

“Look!” Ariadne cried out, scrambling to her hooves, “Oh, look over there!”

Every pair of eyes in the clearing turned towards a clump of bushes on the far side. Through the leaves, there was a shimmer of silver, shifting into the shape of a tall man, broad shouldered and bearded. A quiver of lightning bolts hung from one shoulder. A soft breath whispered across the clearing.

“Zeus,” Atalanta breathed.

Zeus, or the apparition of him, glided through the clearing, his glowing robe sweeping over the leaf litter without disturbing even one twig. He was followed by his two brothers, Poseidon glittering with scales and Hades as pale as the moon. Behind them came a steady procession of men and women, all clothed in pale togas, each of them carrying an item that identified who they were.

“Artemis,” Ajax whispered, watching as a woman dressed in a short toga passed him, “Look at that bow, would ye?”

One by one, the members of the Greek pantheon passed through the clearing, each of them softly glowing. The centaurs were silent, in awe, whilst Marian was marvelling at what he’d produced. Him! Marian with the hollow hands!

Last to step into the clearing was a woman, tall and graceful. Her dark hair was twisted up into a gleaming knot against the back of her neck and her cape dragged behind her like a peacock’s tail. Her face was solemn and, in her right hand, she carried a pomegranate branch.

“Hera,” murmured the centaur Artemis, her face reverent.

“This pantheon belongs to myth,” Heracles said, “They left when men stopped believing in them and abandoned those who they created.” He stood up, stamping one foot, “It’s a cute trick but nothing more.”

It was Ajax who scrambled to his feet first. The gods and goddesses had faded into the shadow of the woods and the strange seedling of magic had retreated to where it had come from. Ajax trotted across the clearing, jumping over one of the low lying bushes.

“Hera!” he cried, “My lady!”

His words seemed to shatter the spell that held the others still. First Atalanta and then Artemis chased after him, followed by Ganymede and Ariadne. They called out with the voices of children. Marian stood up and watched them, chuckling slightly.

“Would you look at that, Mother?” he murmured, “Not all of your teaching was wasted.”

“Now that,” Heracles said, voice low and dangerous, “Was a risky move, halfling.”

Before Marian could move, Heracles had hoisted him off of the ground and lifted him onto a tree branch, lashing him in place with a horse hair rope. The centaur dropped back to all fours and nodded, satisfied.

“May ye sit up there for the night,” he said, “Think on lying and deceit; this is why we loathe to trust your kind.” He wheeled round, “Jorth! Come on, let’s go and herd up the others.”

Marian watched him go before he sighed, resting his cheek on the branch. He heard Jorth crash through the trees and then her voice, rough and high, calling for the other centaurs. From up here, he could see a faint glimmer as his illusions continued through the wood.

“Well done, Marian,” he muttered, “You made magic and now look where you are.”

He felt a faint tug on the back of his heart and he looked up, listening hard. The Nation was in the wood; now if only he knew where. He opened his mouth to call out and then he felt a dry, leafy hand brush against his cheek. Something crawled over his head and settled on the branch in front of him.

She was a dryad, small with a head of oak leaves instead of hair. Her skin was as brown and rough as the tree she lived in and her eyes were the pale green of acorns. She rested her elbows on her knees and sighed dreamily.

“Always,” she said sweetly, “A dryad’s love lasts always.”

“Oh Lord,” he said before rearranging his face into a smile, “Unfortunately, Lady, I have to tell you I’m engaged. Eurydice.”

“Oh, _her_ ,” the dryad’s face crinkled in distaste, “Everyone knows _her_. But you’re the only one to know me and that makes us far more special.”

Dryads, the ones without names, were often prone to only one emotion at a time, since they were so simple it swallowed them whole. She stood up and clambered on his knees, bringing her face close to his, peppering his cheek in leafy kisses.

“And she’s already got Orpheus,” she whispered, “She can’t have two. I want one too!”

The oak swayed as she worked herself up and Marian wished his hands were free so he could clamber down. Already his fingers felt as stiff as twigs.

‘ _You always wanted to get closer to nature,’_ he thought to himself, ‘ _I just hope that she tends my leaves well and keeps me safe from frost in winter.’_

Suddenly, the dryad hissed and clambered atop Marian’s head, her leaves bristling with fury. She spat a glob of sap but it did nothing to ease her temper. Marian craned his neck, trying to look beneath him without sending an already angry dryad tumbling down to the forest floor. He caught sight of blond hair and raven feathers before the ropes went slack and fell to the ground. The rope being the only thing keeping him on the branch, Marian toppled to the side, the dryad leaping from his head with a shriek. He braced himself for the inevitable thump.

A pair of strong arms caught him before he hit the ground. Marian breathed in the scent of wood smoke before the Nation set him on wobbly feet again, touching points on his hands with the birch wand. The dryad perched on the end of the branch and spat more sap, this time catching the Nation shoulder.

“Thank the gods that you came,” Marian said, plucking leaves from his hair, “Else I’d have been quite the ugly lump of bark, don’t you think?”

“What were you doing in a tree?” the Nation asked, slipping his wand away when the bark that had started growing in lumps on Marian’s knuckles melted away, “I thought you were carried off by centaurs.”

“I was,” Marian replied. A raven swooped down from the trees and circled overhead, catching the Nation’s attention, “But they put me in the tree.” He perked up, “Did you see, though? Did you see my magic?”

The Nation looked at him again and his smile was soft, “I did. Your mother would be proud.”

Marian’s shoulders slumped, “I don’t know if I could do it again.”

“Find out where it came from,” the Nation said, shifting his pack so the raven could perch on his shoulder, “And call it again when you need it.”

At that, he turned and left the clearing, Marian following close behind. From the look on his face, the Nation didn’t seem to really know where he was going, just that he wanted to get away from the angry dryad. He paused for a moment, scratching his head. Marian stopped alongside him, opening his mouth to speak, but didn’t get a chance to say a word.

“Leaving my side so early, little one?” Jorth asked behind him, laughing her throaty laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

“The herd will be sorry to see you go,” Jorth said, examining her dirty fingernails, “They like you really.”

The end of her braid was heavy with mud and her long feet were slimy with mud, the heel of one foot smeared with red from an open cut. She grinned at him, her teeth pointed.

She waggled her fingers at him in a wave, “What’s the face for? Freya not what you expected, eh?”

Marian frowned; he hadn’t heard her approach at all, he’d been so caught up in the excitement of his magic and, some small part of him was unashamed to admit, happiness that the Nation had thought him worthy enough to come and rescue him. He pressed closer to the Nation, noting how rigid the Nation’s back had gone. It was then that Jorth clocked the Nation’s presence and her smile slid from her face, falling to her feet and vanishing into the leaf litter. Her green eyes swelled with tears.

In just two steps, she crossed the space between them and fell to her knees, seizing hold of the Nation’s hand and pressing it to her forehead. It took Marian a moment to realise that she was crying. He looked up at the Nation to see that the Nation’s face was a mix of strange discomfort and heartrending homesickness. Marian felt locked out and he turned away again, cheeks burning. He felt like a petulant child.

“Where have you been?” Jorth whispered, “You just disappeared. Where have you _been_?”

“I’ve been at home,” the Nation replied softly, “But now I’m here.”

“Home,” Marian looked up to see that Jorth was looking up at the Nation now, “And what good is it that you were at home? Humans wither in front of faeries and the fey trample over everything that made you great.” She pressed her forehead against the Nation’s stomach, “But of course you were at home.”

The Nation didn’t say anything for a long while, his hand stroking Jorth’s dirty blonde hair. The raven had flapped into the canopy and was croaking overhead. Marian sucked his lip into his mouth, not wanting to say a word.

“And now I’m the last Nation in the world,” the Nation said.

“It’s all right,” Jorth murmured, “They’ll forgive you. I forgive you, for being hidden so long.”

Marian felt a spike of jealousy slice through his chest. The Nation had barely touched him, even when he’d fallen from a tree, and had been short with him throughout their time together. And now, here was a troll, a faery, who was allowed to touch the Nation and hold him and give him her forgiveness instead of asking for his. Where had she been when the Nation had needed her?

“Faeries don’t forgive Nations,” he said bitterly, crossing his arms, “Nations are for humans.”

He could see the beginnings of the Nation’s secret smile. Jorth pulled away, wiping her tears away with the end of one of her braids, and stood up.

“For all your tricks and fancy airs,” she said, “You don’t seem to know much about Nations. Nations are for anyone who looks for a homeland, not just humans.”

“Bully for you,” Marian said, scowling. The Nation gave him an odd look, almost puzzled by Marian’s bitterness.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. Jorth was still at his side and didn’t move away.

“Nothing,” Marian replied, “I was just nearly turned into a tree and she did nothing to stop it. Didn’t even stop the centaur from putting me in the tree in the first place.”

Jorth blinked, “I didn’t know he’d put you in the dryad’s tree. If I knew, I’d have taken you down myself.”

Marian stuck his nose in the air, knowing that he was putting on airs and not caring in the slightest, “But you didn’t and it hardly matters now anyway. We have to go.”

Jorth tossed her long braid over her shoulder, “I’m ready.”

Bewildered, Marian looked at the Nation, who only shrugged. His scowl returned, deeper this time, and he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets.

“We’re on a quest,” he said, “You might be a poor fit.”

“We?” Jorth’s grin curled up again and she cocked her eyebrow, “It’s your quest too? You set out on it together?”

“I’m helping him,” Marian said stiffly, feeling colour flood his cheeks. The Nation made a small sound in the back of his throat and Jorth made it back, tapping her chin with her index finger.

“He doesn’t need your help, little one,” she said, “He’s old enough and skilled enough that he doesn’t. Why is he letting you travel with him? Company, maybe, but not because he needs your help. And he’ll let me come too, though he doesn’t need me either.” She patted the Nation’s shoulder, “Ask him yourself.”

Marian’s jealousy spiked again at the contact but he didn’t let himself get angry. Instead, he turned inward, hunching his shoulders and glaring, letting himself return to the sulky petulance of his teenage years.

“If it’s company he wants,” he said, “Then remember three is a crowd. So he can take you and I’ll find myself work elsewhere, pedalling my meagre talent to the masses. His debt’s paid now and he has you so there’s no real need for me to carry on.”

“Marian,” the Nation said, his tone carrying a warning. Marian didn’t dare direct his glare at the Nation; he didn’t want to see the look in those old eyes.

“Nej, sir,” Jorth said to the Nation, “He’s upset and he has the right to be; it’s a great honour to travel by yer Nation.”

“He’s not mine,” Marian spat before the Nation could reply, “He said so himself.”

The Nation pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression long-suffering, “Don’t be angry, Marian.”

Marian turned his back so Jorth couldn’t see the hurt on his face. He stole glances of the Nation, who regarded him with sea-deep, secret eyes. There was gentleness there as well; soft caring beneath the veil of age, but Marian had still not been allowed to touch him.

“She doesn’t even know where we’re going,” Marian said thinly.

Jorth snorted, “I don’t know where I’m going meself, if I’m honest.”

“We’re going to King Merari, to find the Unicorn and see what he knows,” Marian said, turning again once he was sure he’d scrubbed all hurt from his face.

For a moment, Jorth’s face drained of all colour. She reached out to take hold of the Nation again, her long fingers curling around his forearm, and she relaxed again, a quiet confidence filling her face.

“Well, little one,” she said, “You’re going the wrong way.”

She led them out of the forest, Marian stepping into her long footprints in the mud. The Nation fell into step beside him so that both of them trailed behind the troll woman. The raven flapped out of the trees, raking its talons through the Nation’s sunlit hair before it vanished.

“What was wrong with you?” the Nation asked, keeping his voice as level as possible.

Marian’s breath hissed between his teeth, “Nothing.”

The Nation’s eyes searched Marian’s face as the sun rose, “Have you slept?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” Marian kicked a stone, “You sound like my mother.”

The Nation was quiet but only for a moment, “Jorth is right, you know. I do need your company.” His voice was strained, as if he was admitting something private and painful.

“Well, you have hers now,” Marian said, “So I’ll stop at the next village and you two can carry on. Your debt’s paid now; I saved you from Mercury, you saved me from a dryad. We’re even.”

“You are an idiot,” the Nation said, but there was a smile in his voice, “It wasn’t about getting even at all.”

“But you still have her,” Marian said stubbornly.

“Jorth is a troll,” the Nation said, “She and I go back a long way but she’s still a troll. Me and you are equal parts human and other. I need that company like I need hers.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” the Nation nodded in response to Marian’s oddly hopeful look.

They lapsed into silence then. The Nation sped his pace a little, setting himself in the space between Jorth and Marian. Marian trailed behind him, his heart warmed, spitting splinters.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Nasty, poisonous things they are,” Jorth spat on the cracked road, “I say leave it be and move on.”

The Nation looked to Marian, who was so filled with excitement that he was practically hopping; it was the most animated he’d seen the halfling since they’d met. His face was alight with happiness and his youth poured out of him.

“Poisonous to you,” he said thoughtfully, “But Marian isn’t affected.”

“Made him giddy,” Jorth said ruefully, “He looks strange without a sour look.”

“He looks his age,” the Nation tipped his head, “Though, we don’t know if it even works.”

Marian bounded over to them, fizzing, looking remarkably child-like, though he didn’t grasp for the Nation in the same way a child would his mother. Jorth schooled her face from an expression of disgust to mirror the Nation’s neutral expression.

“Do you think it works?” Marian said excitedly, “I’ve never been in one that works before.”

The Nation followed him back to the car and examined the body of the sleek black car. It wasn’t rusting and old like the many that he’d seen. He crouched to smear the mud away from the number plate; on the left side, in a small blue rectangle, there was a ring of yellow stars above a white D.

“What does that mean?” Marian asked, leaning over the Nation’s shoulder.

“Deutschland,” the Nation replied, straightening, “Germany. So we’re in Germany?”

“Can’t you tell?” Jorth asked, keeping her distance from the car.

The Nation shook his head, “Not as easily as I could.”

“Does it work?” Marian asked, going round to the front of the car again, “How could you tell? Can you drive?”

“I don’t know if it still work,” the Nation replied, “Yes I can drive.” He joined Marian; the driver’s door hung open. He reached in and tapped the ignition, “I can’t tell if it works without a key.”

“How old is it, do you think?”

The Nation leant further into the car, leaning against the driver’s seat. The back seat was empty but everything seemed to be in place. There was only the barest layer of dust lying over the interior. Kneeling on the driver’s seat, he pawed through the glove compartment, feeling papers and CD cases.

“Whoever drove this,” he murmured, “Only abandoned it recently. If they haven’t come back, I’d say they’re long gone.” He backed out of the car again, “If you can find the key, I can drive it for you.”

He heard a quiet jingle and he turned to see Marian holding up a bundle of keys, “Is this what a car key looks like?”

The Nation blinked in surprise, “Yes. Where did you find them?”

Marian pointed to the grassy verge, “Over there.” A frown crossed over his face, breaking his excitement for a moment, “There are hoof prints over there, though. Cloven ones. Satyrs might be around. Or fauns.”

The Nation looked over at Jorth, who shrugged, “They might be around. They’re nomads, I wouldn’t put it past a rogue or two to make their way this far north.”

The Nation pushed away the gnawing concern at the back of his mind and took the keys from Marian, “Satyrs or not, showing Marian a drive won’t hurt.”

The look on Marian’s face made it appear as if the sun had risen behind his eyes. Jorth stood beside the Nation before he could take the driver’s seat.

“You’ll lose time,” she said solemnly.

“The others have waited this long,” the Nation replied, “And the world kept turning. They can wait an hour or so longer.”

Jorth’s face turned sad, “I wish you could be something that couldn’t wait, like a robin or a wee rabbit, something has to move to meet time rather than wait for time to meet them.”

The Nation got an itching feeling in the back of his head that told him that Jorth and Marian were in some kind of competition for his attention. He couldn’t puzzle out why; he wasn’t Marian’s Nation and Jorth had known him for years. There didn’t need to be, from his point of view, any sort of competition at all.

“This is my search,” he said, “I can pause it for what I like and for how long I like.” He shrugged, “Besides, if it works and the owners aren’t coming back, we could take it with us; it would be much faster than walking.”

Jorth wrinkled her nose at the car and the Nation opened the back door for her. She looked him up and down for a moment before she slid in, sitting with her back against the far door and her long legs across the back seats, knees bent slightly. The Nation slammed the door closed again before taking the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition.

“You’re buzzing,” he said to Marian, “Is this really such a big thing for you?”

Marian nodded, “Papa had a car. He never drove it, of course.”

The Nation turned the key into the ignition and the car purred to life. He pushed the car into gear and released the hand brake, slowly easing it forwards. In the back seat, Jorth moaned and covered her eyes with her hands. Marian, on the other hand, looked as if this was the first time he’d felt excitement in his life and a lifetime’s excitement was filling him all at once. He figured out how the windows worked and the passenger window was quickly wound down, Marian hanging his head out, wind streaming through his hair. The Nation had to admit, he’d missed the pull of a car beneath his feet; it was a relief to his ankles and his back not to be standing. The roads remained completely empty of cars, speed cameras and road signs falling into disrepair.

“Hey,” Marian foraged through the glove compartment when his dog impersonation started to bore him. He pulled out a dark leather wallet, “Think this will tell who owned the car?”

The wind continued to roar past the window, Jorth leaning her head towards it, looking slightly green. The Nation spared the wallet a glance as he shifted into a lower gear. Marian flipped the wallet open and it was the picture on the driver’s license that caught the Nation’s attention. He slammed his foot down on the brake, his left foot pressing the clutch flat to the floor, bringing the car to a sudden stop. Jorth toppled against the front seats, swearing as she did.

“What’s wrong?” Marian asked, peering at the Nation through dark, tousled hair, “You’ve gone pale.”

The Nation took the wallet from Marian, examining the license. Behind him, Jorth pulled herself back onto the back seat, muttering curse words under her breath. The Nation traced the leathery edge around the license and wet his lips.

“I…I’m fine,” he said, “But I think that this car might have belonged to another Nation.”


	11. Chapter 11

Jorth built them shelters out of branches and bracken, binding them together with mud and magic. A thick, soupy fog swallowed up the world around them and the Nation found himself incredibly grateful that they’d found each other; he held very little sway over the magic of trees and plants and he doubted that Marian would fare much better.

“This fog’s not natural,” Jorth announced one night. Marian was asleep, curled up on his side with his head pillowed on the Nation’s pack; Jorth had tucked the pack under the halfling’s head after he’d fallen asleep, fretting over the state of his neck in the morning.

“Hmm?” the Nation couldn’t speak around his mouthful of hair pins. He raked the comb through Jorth’s hair, easing out the knots and tangles.

“Ja,” Jorth said, her eyes sliding to the entrance of their makeshift shelter, “It’s summer; yer birthday’s just passed. Too early for fog.”

The Nation spat out the hair pins, “Isn’t it the nature of most faeries to change nature? It might just be a faery causing mischief.”

Jorth shifted and toyed with the ends of her hair; it was long enough to reach her ankles when she stood. Her long toes curled. Marian sighed in his sleep and her expression turned indulgent. The Nation separated two hanks of hair from alongside Jorth’s head and pulled them back. Carefully, he started to braid, softly plaiting each into neat braids. When he was done, he neatly slid the pins into place to keep the braids from unravelling, pinning them so that they looped around to the back of Jorth’s head.

“There,” he said, “Done.”

Jorth lightly touched one of the braids, “Just as quick as I remember.”

The Nation smiled and leant back on his hands, “Only for you, of course.”

Jorth smoothed out her loose hair before biting her lip and looking at Marian. She readjusted his coat where it had slipped off of him. The shadows of dreams chased each other across his face. The Nation suddenly felt very old and tired looking at him.

“You don’t think he’s cold, do you?” Jorth asked, brow creased in worry.

“No,” the Nation said distractedly, “If he was, I don’t think he’d be asleep.”

It didn’t seem to do much to ease Jorth’s worries. She untied her deerskin overskirt from around her waist and laid the hide over Marian. Outside, the fog thickened but the world lightened, as if the fog carried its own light and illuminated the world around it. The Nation frowned.

“How close are we to Merari?” he asked.

“Not far,” Jorth said, “I would say about a day’s walk? He lives in a tower by the sea; the ocean on one side, a thick forest on the other. The forest isn’t natural, I think. I think he made it grow to keep people away. Of course, there is a path there but…the forest is a good deterrent.”

The Nation nodded. Outside, the world glowed. It was bright enough to illuminate the inside of their small shelter, showing every crater and shadow of their faces. The Nation crawled forward and, very carefully so as not to disturb Marian, he pulled the birch wand out of his pack. Marian let out a soft, sleepy moan but he didn’t wake up.

“Where are you going?” Jorth asked, not budging from Marian’s side.

“To see what’s causing that light,” the Nation said, pointing to the entrance, “There’s no moon and, even if there was, it shouldn’t be that bright.”

He edged out of the shelter. Outside, the fog coiled around his ankles and whispered down his neck. It felt more like the middle of the day, if a cloudy one, rather than the dark hours of the night; if it wasn’t for the stars winking through the fog, the Nation would have assumed that it was already dawn. Muffled by the fog, he could hear the sound of feet against the earth. The Nation lit his wand and held it aloft.

“Who’s there?” he called out, emboldened by the new light and the fact that he had Jorth behind him, ready to come to his aid if he called.

The fog, or rather what lurked in the fog, answered with a wild scream. The fog writhed and heaved, like the ocean tossed by a storm. The Nation took a step back as the fog sucked away from him. The footsteps pounded towards him and the rest of the fog drained away, leaving nothing but a thick blanket of darkness.

“Sir?” Jorth’s voice came from behind him but the Nation didn’t hear her. He was frozen in place.

The Unicorn stood before him, pawing at the earth. He was the colour of newly fallen snow, with a mane and tail of sea foam. Light rolled off of him in waves and the spiralling horn encased a beam of moonlight. He tossed his head and fixed the Nation with an eye as green as a sea storm, the centre of the pupil sucking the Nation down. He was the most wild, terrifying and beautiful thing that the Nation had ever seen. For one long, heart stopping moment, the Nation and the Unicorn stared each other down before the light on the Nation’s wand winked out and he turned and bolted. Jorth’s screams for Marian to wake up rang in his ears.

The Unicorn reared up and screamed into the night before springing after the Nation, knocking Jorth and the sleepy Marian aside with a flick of his tail. The Nation crashed through the undergrowth with his heart in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid. Branches whipped at his chest and tangled at his hair. The Unicorn’s icy, salt-scented breath wrapped around him.

‘ _This is the end,’_ was his one desperate thought.

Hooves crushed his footprints out of existence as the Unicorn charged after him. He dodged around a thick oak and he heard the Unicorn crunch into it. He dove under a thick clump of bushes, a freezing sweat soaking his body. His shoulder ached and throbbed where he’d been struck by a tree. He heard the Unicorn snort behind him and he scrambled free of the bushes, hands grazing on pebbles and his ankles snatching at roots. He burst out of the copse of trees and into the farmer’s field. The cows that had been let out to graze for the night bellowed and crashed out of the way as the Unicorn charged on his heels.

The grass bowed down before him to let him pass and the Nation ran as he never had before, his legs rubbery, his mouth clogged, and his chest feeling gummy. In his head, he heard the ringing words of the pixie: _The Unicorn beat the lion to the crown and drove the Nations, all of them, into the arms of his king._ His stomach turned and he wanted to be sick but he didn’t dare stop. The Unicorn leapt and landed in front of him, the grass of the field browning and freezing in a perfect ring around the Unicorn’s hooves. The Nation’s breath ghosted before him and the Unicorn lowered his head, the spiralling horn pointed at the Nation’s heart. With a breathless cry, the Nation spun and bolted back the way he came, leaping over the fence that the Unicorn had crushed in his pursuit.

His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to burst out from his heaving ribs. As he dived and darted amongst the trees, only one thought crossed his mind.

_‘This is the end.’_

***

Marian had never seen the Nation afraid. Not when he’d been in Mercury’s cage, not when he’d faced the Gorgon and not on any of their travels.

“He’s being driven,” Jorth said, the words rumbling in her chest, her voice a few inches above Marian’s head. She’d snatched him out of the shelter just before the Unicorn trampled it and she still held him in her arms, holding him with her arms wrapped around his middle, his feet dangling.

“It doesn’t want to kill him?” Marian said softly.

“No,” Jorth replied, “Else it would be over by now.”

The Nation was a slender shadow darting across the field, blocked by the glowing mass of the Unicorn. The Unicorn’s mane left trails of silver through the night and floated like dandelion down. Marian was taken aback by how beautiful it was. The pair of them could only watch as the Nation wheeled around to hurtle back to the cover of the trees, the Unicorn’s horn inches from him.

“It won’t get him,” Marian said with a quiet confidence, “He won’t let it.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, lad,” Jorth said, setting him down, “It’s wearing him down.”

Marian swallowed, “We have to do something.”

“And what can we do?” Jorth’s voice was thick. Marian felt hot tears drop down onto his head.

What could they do? A troll and a hollow-handed halfling. What chance did they have against a beast like Merari’s Unicorn? The Unicorn had stopped the Nation again, trapping him against a tree. Marian could see the Nation’s legs trembling with exhaustion, his face ashen and shining with sweat. The Unicorn’s horn angled over his heart and the Nation tumbled away, collapsing to the floor for a moment before he struggled away. Even as he ran, he curled away from the Unicorn. It was a pitiful sight. Behind him, Marian could feel Jorth’s heart breaking.

_Do something._

A bud burst in his chest and his insides turned warm. There was a tremendous crack as the Unicorn rammed into an old tree, topping it from its roots. It collapsed between the Nation and the Unicorn and the Nation gained a quick reprieve, his chest heaving.

“Run!” Jorth bellowed whilst the Unicorn screamed, “Run now!”

The Nation looked at her with sad eyes. Marian watched him whilst warmth blossomed in his own chest, shielding him even from the chill of the Unicorn. The Unicorn snorted a winter wind and jumped over the tree, a movement too delicate for a creature that size. The Nation burst forward again, spurred by terror. Jorth’s eyes closed.

“So it ends,” she said softly.

“Not yet,” Marian said, looking up at her. There was a shine to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

He clambered up onto the fallen tree to see the Nation darting through the trees, the Unicorn nearly upon him like a flurry of snow. A root sent the Nation sprawling and he didn’t get up this time. The Unicorn lowered his head and snow fell from his mane; the horn was a plume of moonlight. Marian breathed in and let the small flower in his chest spread, vines of magic twining around his ribs and roots unravelling to his marrow. He felt tears bubble up in his eyes and the magic left him like a bird in flight. Behind him, he heard Jorth gasp as if in pain.

The full impact of the spell hit him like a lightning bolt and he swayed for a moment before he fell. Much like last time he’d fallen, a pair of strong arms caught him but this time they held him. He could feel his hands shaking. Jorth held him with one arm whilst her free hand pressed over her heart.

“Oh, Marian,” she said, sounding horrified, “What have you done?”


	12. Chapter 12

The Unicorn's head had lifted again and he stood very still, switching his tail. He briefly nosed at the Nation on the ground before snorting in distaste. He turned his head to look at Marian and Jorth with sea-green eyes; Jorth, still gripping Marian's arm, took a step back. The Unicorn blew a puff of snow onto the still form onto the ground before stepping over him and vanishing into a cloud of mist that melted away where the moon touched it. Marian watched until he vanished completely before he looked down at the Nation.

He lay in a heap on the ground, his face buried in his arms. He was covered with a light dusting of snow, despite the summer night, that sparkled silver in the weak light. Judging by the soft rise and fall of his ribs, he was fast asleep. Jorth let go of Marian's arm and rushed to the Nation's side, gathering him up into her arms to hold him against her chest.

"Marian," she moaned, cradling the Nation close, "What have you  _done?"_

Marian, still giddy on the feeling of magic, only grinned, "What do you mean what have I done? The Unicorn's gone, isn't it? And he's safe, yes?"

Jorth shifted her hold on the Nation. Marian saw where the Unicorn's horn had torn his shirt, from the left side of his chest up to his shoulder. The fabric slipped off of his shoulder and it was then that Marian saw the mark over the Nation's heart; a small, purple scar shaped like a small star, distinctive against the pale web of scars that covered the rest of the Nation's torso. Marian's smile slipped when he realised. There was no tug on his heart, no pull to that private, secret part of him.

"He'll go mad," Jorth whispered, hugging the former Nation close, "You've taken away what made him himself. He'll go mad."

"I can put it right," Marian said helplessly as the man started to stir, "I can make him a Nation again."

The man's eyes fluttered open, eyelashes twitching. He lifted his head, snow falling off him in a glittering cascade. His eyes seemed deeper and older than they had before, set in a face now free from a Nation's connection to an ancient land and culture. Those eyes still took Marian's breath from his lungs. He pushed away from Jorth, shaking, and his hands found their way to the spot over his heart, fingers grasping at his chest. His eyes widened and filled with tears, his jaw trembling. He looked up and searched Marian's face and then Jorth's for clues.

He stayed kneeling in silence for a moment, his voice caught, his throat working against shock and the aftermath of his flight from the Unicorn. Marian could see the scream building in his chest.

When it came, it was heart wrenching.

The man clawed at his chest, raking red lines against the exposed skin, lurching to his feet. Marian stepped out of his way as he clutched at his head, pulling on his blond hair in panic. His breath came hard and fast.

"They're gone," he whispered. He fixed Marian with a blazing look and he was still shaking, "What happened to me?!"

Marian's mouth opened and closed like a fish but no sound came out. The man paid him no heed. Instead he traced his own features with strangle timid fingers. His gold pin had fallen out during the chase and his fingers recoiled from his own blond hair. One hand found the raised, star-shaped scar on his chest and he paled.

"What happened?" he asked again, this time looking to Jorth. She didn't reply but her face fell and her eyes moved to Marian. Realisation dawned on the man's face and he turned to Marian, his anger racing across his face, "What have you done?"

"I…" Marian held his hands out in front of him, "I couldn't do anything else to save you."

The man blazed. Jorth scrambled forwards to grab at his waist and his arm, keeping him from pouncing on Marian. The look in his eyes was feral. Jorth twisted so the man was turned away from Marian and sent him toppling to the ground again, landing with a thump. She stood between Marian and the man, keeping Marian from being torn to pieces.

"You'll be staying there," she said with the firm voice of a mother, "Until you calm down and get your head back; this isn't you talking."

The man spat and glared at Marian around Jorth, "I'm  _not_  myself, thanks to that idiot over there."

Marian flinched as if the man had struck him. Jorth's brow furrowed.

"If it weren't for Marian, yer wouldn't be here at all," she said sternly, tail flicking, "So remember that." She turned to look at Marian and he shrank away slightly, "And you, don't go meddling in things you don't understand again. Yer meant well but you didn't know what you were doing."

Marian swallowed and nodded, cheeks burning. The man just huffed and scowled, his glare not shifting from Marian. Jorth's tail whisked again.

"Now both of you stay put," she said, "Either of you move and you'll suffer for it."

She left them to retrieve their things from the shelter. Marian fidgeted under the man's glare, feeling his bones melt and his blood turn to ice. He offered a sheepish, apologetic look. The man's expression didn't change.

"I really only did it to help," he said, "I know it won't make you feel any better but I thought…"

The man waved a hand dismissively, "Doesn't matter what you thought, now it's done." He rubbed at his arms and his voice dropped to a whisper, "But my people. They matter."

"At least you're alive," Marian ventured, hoping that the man's rage was subsiding, "What would have happened if the Unicorn had taken you?"

The man buried his head in his arms, "The Unicorn. I don't know what it is; it's a lot older than I am."

Jorth returned to see the shuddering man and Marian standing helplessly where she'd left him. She set the man's pack down alongside Marian, together with her own overskirt. She went to the man's side and rubbed his back with her long hand, the same way she'd comfort a child.

"Now shush," she said soothingly, "We're on Merari's doorstep and the fact that the lad's done magic twice now shows he knows how to control it. We'll find the others and you'll be connected to your people again before you know."

"I thought I'd die here, Jorth," the man said quietly, turning his face towards her, "I think I still might."

"No, you won't," Jorth consoled him. He pushed her hand away and pulled the torn fabric of his shirt back over his shoulder. He pushed his hair out of his face and groped for a pin that was lost.

"You should have left me to the Gorgon," he said coldly and Marian knew he was talking to him, "Or in Mercury's cage, for Pesta to take me again. At least as a statue or a plague victim, I'd still be myself."

It was Marian's turn to frown, "The Gorgon never went for you and the Black Death was no more real than the basilisk."

"No but I wouldn't be human."

"Humans are not so bad," Jorth offered, "You could have been remade into a tiger or some other beast. You still have your own shape and, as a human, you'll get closer to Merari than as a Nation if it's Nations that the Unicorn is after. Be thankful for that."

She stood up and offered her hand to help the man to his feet. He looked at her hand for a moment before placing his in hers, allowing her to pull him to his feet. He stood as timidly as a lamb. Marian shrugged off his coat and offered it to cover up the torn shirt.

"Well," Jorth said, hands on her hips, taking charge, "You're on your feet and the lad's found that he's not a one trick pony. That and the Unicorn's had his prize snatched from his muzzle." She pointed to where the sun was starting to rise, a band of shining amber on the horizon, "The world's waking up. We need to go."


	13. Chapter 13

The scout found them not long after dawn. He trailed them as they travelled along the cracked, human roads, keeping his footfalls silent and slow. Looming upon the horizon was King Merari’s tower; its colour shifted from black to gradients of purple and nebulas rolled across the walls. From beyond the pointing fingers of the tower came the sound and smell of the sea. The tower dwarfed everything around it, even the thick forest that had sprouted in a ring around its foot, and the three figures looked like dolls as the approached.

The scout climbed up into one of the trees in the outer ring of the forest and hopped lightly from tree to tree, easily catching up to the travelling trio. The road the followed was the only place that trees didn’t grow and was the only path to the tower, unless one knew how to navigate the forest. The scout clambered ahead and paused in the tree branches for a better look at them.

“Two men and a troll,” he said quietly, “What a motley crew you are.”

A soft, sleek raven croaked above him but the scout didn’t bother using his staff to chase it away. He was transfixed on the group. The troll woman supported one of the men who wobbled like a newborn foal on his long legs. The second man trailed behind, carrying a heavy pack. The scout shook his head and dropped out of the tree, weaving through the forest towards the tower. The raven burst through the leaves, shrieking a warning. The scout didn’t see but the first man paused to look up at the bird.

The scout bounded up the steps that led to the tower and the doors, swirling with a cloud of stars, swung open to admit him. Waiting for him on the other side was a tall faery, with dark hair and goatee, moonlit moth wings hanging from his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow at the scout.

“What did you see?”

The scout took off his visor and shook out his blond hair, “Two men and a troll woman. The troll’s what you’d expect; broad and tall, with her hair trailing behind. One man looks to be the timid kind, though obviously used to never being in one place for long. The other…”

“And the other?” the faery said, “Tell me, Whistler.”

Whistler hesitated, biting his lip, “The other, I can’t say. I don’t know if he’s fey or human or neither at all.” He cocked his head to the side, recalling the man on the road, “It’s as if he’s new to his own body.”

“And they’re coming this way?”

“Yes.”

The faery stooped to pick up the visor and donned it himself, hiding his face from view apart from those piercing eyes, “Then we shall go to meet them. Get those feathers out of your hair, Whistler.”

Whistler reached up and was surprised at the smooth, black feathers he pulled from his curls.

 

* * *

 

The man had to crane his head back in order to take in the full view of the tower; the tip of it was shrouded in pearly clouds. He could smell the sea, even with a thick damp forest behind him. Marian let out a low whistle.

“Pretty thing, hmm?” Jorth said, her grip still steady on his arm. He nodded. He hadn’t expected anything so impressive.

A pink nebula rolled across the face of the tower and an aurora danced across the steps. The glassy surface of the tower shimmered purple. The man felt an odd prickle of dread across his chest, though it was only fleeting compared to the deep, all-consuming hollow ache that settled over his heart where his people used to be. His hand found the spot over his heart again and he let out a slow sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Marian’s guilty look.

“Don’t look like that, Marian,” he said, “Find your magic and find a way to lift your spell.”

Marian nodded but didn’t say anything. The front of the tower cracked, splitting a swirl of stars in half, and two men stepped out. One was winged, his wings shining softly in the sun, and his face was hidden behind a thin visor whilst the other looked mostly human, with a head of thick gold curls and drooping brown eyes. Both of them carried tall staffs that curved into a basket like shape at the top; it reminded the man of old Viking spinning distaffs.

“Give me your names,” the masked faery said.

Marian stepped forward and cleared his throat, “My name is Marian. This is Jorth, our guide. And this is…this is…”

He faltered at the man, gesturing lamely. The man quirked an eyebrow and Marian looked to Jorth for help, but she kept her lips closed about his name.

“This is?” the masked faery said, thumping his staff against the step, “Speak, boy!”

“This is Ola Nordmann,” he said and Jorth snorted. Marian looked puzzled but didn’t question him. “We’re looking to talk to King Merari.”

The blond one let out a low whistle and rolled his eyes to the sky. His companion didn’t say anything to him. Instead, he tilted his head, considering the trio in front of him with critical eyes.

“What’s your business with King Merari?”

Ola lifted his chin to match, “Shouldn’t that just be between us and the king?”

The faery snorted in distaste. The blond’s eyes shifted from the sky to watch Ola’s every movement, looking mystified, as if he’d never seen a man before. Jorth tugged Ola closer to her, a gesture that was almost protective, as if she wanted to hide him from view behind Marian.

“I don’t see what business some shabby travellers have with a king,” said the winged faery, “But regardless, you may see him. Follow me.”

He led them through the doors and Ola heard Marian gasp. The hallway was as smooth and glassy as the outside walls but the constellations and nebulas here were brighter and richer. The walls seemed to glow and breathe. There no windows; the tower was lit by the glow of the stars alone. Marian paused to crane his neck to see the stars that travelled across the ceiling but Jorth grabbed hold of his wrist to keep him moving.

“Don’t stand still for too long in place you don’t know,” she leant in to warn the halfling, “You don’t know what might take advantage.”

At that moment, the whole tower seemed to tremble, the stars juddering to a halt. Something outside of the walls wailed and Jorth pulled both Ola and Marian close to her.

“No, don’t worry,” the blond faery said, coming up behind them, “It’s just the Unicorn. He’s nothing to worry about.”

His words didn’t reassure Jorth much but both Marian and Ola managed to wrest their arms free from her grip. The winged faery led them across the great hall, his feet silent against the glassy floor, whilst the blond trailed behind. His eyes were practically pinned to Ola’s back, trying to puzzle him out, even as they were lead up a sweeping staircase. The air smelled like the world before a snowstorm. At the top of the stairs, the winged faery paused in front of a stretch of smooth wall, across which the planets danced. He pressed his long fingered hand against it and the planets melted away, the wall vanishing to reveal a cloudy throne that was born out of the floor. There was one window that took up the entirety of the opposite wall and provided views of both the grey sea and the thick forest.

“This is the throne room,” he announced.

Marian stared, slightly dumbfounded, “There is certainly a throne. I don’t see any king though.”

The blond chuckled from behind them whilst the winged faery removed the visor, “I am King Merari.”

He was tall, nearly as tall as Jorth, but without half of her bulk. His face was ageless and the eyes were as black as beetle shells, looking out at them from under fierce black eyebrows. His goatee and his hair were as black as the night sky, though his hair was lightly flecked with silver. His eyes had the same hard, diamond glint of ice. He beckoned and the blond joined him, mouth tilted in a crooked smile.

“This is Whistler,” Merari said, “My son and scout.”

Whistler raised a hand in a wave but his eyes were fixed on Ola. Ola looked him straight in the eye and felt a strange satisfaction when he recoiled from those ageless, ancient eyes. It was reassuring to know that, while Marian’s spell had changed his nature, it hadn’t changed him completely. Truthfully, he didn’t see Whistler for himself; he could only see the ghost of someone he had once known in that crooked smile, those lightly drooping eyes.

“What do you want with me?” Merari asked, sinking into his throne, slouching against the back, “It’s unusual for people to actively seek me out.”

Marian stepped forward, nodding his head in a small respectful bow. Jorth stayed by Ola’s side, her tail whisking nervously.

“We want to learn,” Marian said and Ola was slightly surprised at how easily the lie came to the halfling’s tongue, “I’m a hollow-handed halfling who wants to study how magic works. My companion, Jorth, seeks to know how your forest grows and behaves.”

Merari raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything to Marian. His beetle-black eyes moved to Ola and he frowned but Ola paid him no heed. Instead, he went to the window to peer out at the world outside, only vaguely conscious of the two pairs of faery eyes boring into his back.

“I have no library,” Merari said to Marian, “No books for you to study; magic is as magic does, I don’t control it.”

“I’m not looking for a library, sir,” Marian said. Ola listened with one ear, “The only way to learn about something is to immerse yourself in it, no? I heard that your lands in particular are rich in strange magic found nowhere else.”

Ola glanced over his shoulder to see Merari curl his lip, “If you want to be swallowed by magic, I won’t stop you. My tower won’t either. As for your troll friend, I have no reason to prevent her from knowing my forest. As for the boy…”

“You mean Ola?” Jorth said, “I’ve known him since childhood. He’s no trouble, sire, I assure you. He has small magical skill himself; Marian might find him useful.”

Ola felt a small grin tug at his mouth. He became very conscious of the fact that Whistler had moved to his side at the window. Merari snorted. Below their feet, the floor seemed to growl and cracks appeared in the smooth surface, as if it had been struck with a stone. Ola looked behind him again to see Jorth reaching for Marian. He felt Whistler reach for his arm as the floor heaved upwards. He pushed the faery’s hand away and took his wand from his belt. The tower trembled and rumbled. He twirled the wand between his fingers and cast the point towards the ceiling; there was a sound like a crack of thunder a flash of blue before the tower settled again. Jorth’s eyes were wide. For a long moment, the room was silent before Merari stood up, ignoring Jorth and Marian and pushing Whistler away.

He gripped Ola’s chin and turned his face up to his own. Long fingers raked through Ola’s hair and pushed it away from his brow.

“What are you looking at?” Merari whispered.

“Your forest.”

“Ah, my forest. There’s not much that I am proud of but I am proud of my forest,” the king paused, looking long and hard into Ola’s eyes. His own filled with frustration and he shoved Ola aside, knocking him to the floor. He pointed with a long, accusatory finger, “What is wrong with your eyes?”

Ola was silent and it was Jorth who spoke, “What do you mean?”

“The boy’s eyes!” Merari thundered, “They are too old for his face! Who is he?!”

“Jorth has told you, your Majesty,” Marian said quietly, “He’s just someone she’s known for a long time. A human knowing faeries ages them.”

“That tells me nothing about who he is!” Merari snapped, taking a step towards Marian.

“Father, surely it makes no difference,” Whistler said, offering Ola his hand, “He’s here now. You can unravel him later.”

Ola ignored Whistler’s hand and stood up himself, tucking his wand back into his belt. He leant against the starry wall and glowered. Merari regarded Whistler with a strange look.

“You’re right,” he said coldly, “The boy is here. They’re all here. Whatever fate they may bring me, they’re here. I will go to look at them in a while; I feel in control when I do.”

He left Ola by the wind, stopping only to speak to Marian and Jorth, “You can all three come and go as you please, though know that the tower closes at moonrise. Study what you will, stay as long as you like. The tower lives and breathes as easily as you and I, as does the forest. Both guard my secrets well, as I’m sure you three guard each others.”

At that, he swept out of the room and descended the stairs again. As he left, the tower seemed to roll with low laughter.

Marian left Jorth’s side to stand near Ola, putting himself between Ola and Whistler. Ola was looking out of the window again, expression distant as he stared down at the forest.

“What is it?” Marian whispered, pulling the torn shirt up again to cover Ola’s scarred chest and shoulder, “What are you looking at?”

Ola looked back into Marian’s dark eyes but didn’t say anything. Whistler cleared his throat before he went to Jorth, who clearly seemed to him to be the only one who would listen.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” he said, his eyes never leaving Ola, “Ask the tower where I am and it will tell you where to find me.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Do you need any help?” Whistler asked, lingering in Jorth’s doorway.

Jorth looked up from where she’d been examining a bundle of leaves she’d taken from one of the trees in the forest. They weren’t any leaves that she could identify. She pulled out the chair next to her and patted it.

“Please,” she said, “Feel free to come in, your Highness.”

“Just call me Whistler,” he said, taking the seat, leaning on the desk she was working at, “There’s no court to put on airs for. What do you need help with?”

Jorth peered at him between thick hanks of dirty blonde hair, “Something’s on your mind.”

“Guilty,” Whistler sighed and stretched out across the desk, “Your boy Ola…he doesn’t talk much, does he? At least, when I try to talk to him, he clams up.”

“Do me a sketch of these leaves,” Jorth said, pushing a sheaf of paper to him, “Keep your hands busy; I don’t like the fidgeting.”

Whistler barely noticed the paper. He rested his chin on the desk in front of him and watched his hands, long fingers twisting a leathery leaf. He’d kept the raven feathers that had tangled in his hair on that first day but he couldn’t for the life of him say why.

“I found another dragon’s egg today,” he said eventually, “One of the rejected ones?”

“An empty one?” Jorth asked. Whistler nodded, “Well, you have a growing collection now, don’t you? They add some nice colour to this place.”

“Mm. The mother didn’t like that I was so close to her nest. You’d think that if she didn’t want people near her nest, she wouldn’t leave the empties so close to it.”

“Mothers aren’t always reasonable,” Jorth said. She tapped the paper in front of him, “Come on, Whistler, those sketches won’t wait.”

He picked up the pen and laid one of the leaves out in front of him, feeling the slight hum of magic beneath his fingers. For a moment, he drew in silence, dragging thick lines across the paper. Slowly, the wobbly shape of the leaf started to appear beneath his hands.

“I took this one to him as well,” he said, “He was with the halfling, as usual, though I don’t know what they were doing. I swear nothing seems to impress him. I mean, this one he accepted but it didn’t wow him like dragon eggs should. Marian was more impressed. I felt like some petty thief, never mind the burns the mother gave me for my troubles.”

“Ola can be hard to impress at the best of times,” Jorth said, setting down her leaf bundle, “He’s seen more than you can understand. If dragon eggs don’t move him, maybe you should try something else.”

Whistler made an irritated sound at the back his throat. He turned away from the paper and shook the pen to get it to work again; ink burst from the end and splattered over his hands and clothes. It stained his fingernails blue.

“Does he have chest problems?” he asked abruptly, setting the pen down and wiping his inky hands on his dark trousers.

“Why do you ask?”

“Whenever I see him, he has a hand over his chest. Does his heart bother him? I know a healer who could help.”

“Ah,” Jorth bit her lip, “I don’t think that Ola’s heart problems can be fixed by any faery hands.”

“I thought I felt my ears burning,” Ola said from the doorway. Whistler jerked and leapt to his feet.

Ola looked paler than usual and his old eyes were shadowed with purple bruises. He seemed ill. One hand rubbed at his chest whilst the other hung at his side. Blood slid down his long fingers to drip to the floor.

“Come here,” Jorth said, beckoning with one hand, “Let me see your hand.”

He went to her without fuss, ignoring Whistler completely. It was unlike how he usually behaved; usually there’d be an eye roll or something muttered under his breath. For Jorth, though, there was nothing. It reminded Whistler of a child going to his favoured parent.

Jorth tutted under her breath when she saw the cut running across Ola’s palm, long and as red as rubies, “What have you been doing?”

“Wand whittling,” Ola replied, nudging the sketches aside and sitting on Jorth’s desk, long legs swinging. “My hand slipped.”

“When?”

“A couple of minutes ago. It’s nothing, really.”

Whistler gaped. Before his eyes, the cut seemed to be healing over, spilt skin smoothing and the raw edges knitting together again. Jorth rubbed her thumb over the cut and it came away with a sheen of red, though the wound quickly stopped bleeding. Ola flexed his fingers.

“See,” he said, his eyes finding Whistler, “Nothing at all.”

Whistler looked towards Jorth for an explanation but she only closed her hand over Ola’s, “Don’t let it happen too much, all right?”

Ola pulled his hand free and gently cuffed Jorth’s head, “You worry too much.” He slid off of her desk again, “By the way, what wood do you think would work better for Marian? He doesn’t match birch.”

“Try ash,” Jorth said.

Ola brushed past Whistler as he left the room, his skin warm despite the constant chill of the tower. Whistler followed him. For a while, it seemed as if Ola hardly noticed him, if at all, because he never once turned to glance at him. Ola turned a corner, walking across the swirl of the Milky Way, before he whipped around and backed Whistler against the wall, pinning him there with one hand on his shoulder.

“Why are you following me?” he said, “You’ve done it since I got here. Did your father put you up to it?”

Whistler looked away from those bottomless eyes, “My father doesn’t put me up to anything. He’s not the most involved parent.”

He could feel Ola’s eyes raking him up and down before the hand moved away and Ola sighed. Whistler dared a peek at him. Beneath the soft light of stars, he seemed to glow, as if soaked in magic.

“So why are you following me?” Ola asked again, fixing Whistler with an icy glare.

Whistler cleared his throat, “What kind of magic do you do?”

Ola blinked, “Excuse me?”

“What magic do you do?”

Dark blue eyes narrowed, “What business is it of yours?”

“Well,” Whistler shifted, “If your friend is half-faery, then his magic will work differently to yours. It might be why you’re struggling to find a wand for him.”

Ola stared at him for a moment. His expression was a strange mix of annoyance and bewilderment, as if he could hardly believe what Whistler was saying. Whistler lifted his chin; he was prince here, not the thin human waif with immortal eyes.

“Marian and I will work through it,” he said stiffly. He looked Whistler up and down again, “Stop following me. Tell your father that I’d appreciate it if he wants to know my secrets, he needs to find out himself rather than sending his son to spy on me.”

“I wasn’t spying,” Whistler said, drawing himself up taller, “I followed you _once_. It’s not my fault you walked in while I was talking to Jorth, is it? And it’s not my fault that you decided to show off that fancy healing in plain view, is it?”

Ola’s eyes darkened with annoyance and Whistler felt his knees start to wobble under that gaze; the man’s eyes seem to look through his clothes, burning beneath his skin to see the heaving rib cage and the trembling heart beneath.  He coughed and sidled around past Ola, stepping out to stand over Capricorn. He swallowed.

“The dragon’s eggs might help,” he said, “With Marian. Get him back to the roots of magic.” He frowned and cocked his head. Ola was rubbing at his chest again, his face strained as if he was out of breath, “And with your chest as well.”

He sank into a shallow bow, the way his father had taught him to when leaving someone, “I hope your heart gets better soon, Ola Nordmann.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I only have a couple more chapters with some character stuff + revelations, then climax and this will be done. This is strange for me. Very strange O_o

"You know," Marian said one grey morning, "It wouldn't hurt you to say thank you to him."

Ola didn't look away from the window. Below the tower, the forest rippled like a green sea, leaves waving, every tree moving as one. The sky was pale and dark clouds scudded over the polished arch. His chest still felt empty and ached with hollowness; his heartbeat thumped alone, rather than being echoed by millions of others. Absently, he rubbed at the star shaped scar left by the Unicorn when the horn pricked the skin of his chest and he shuddered.

"No," he agreed, "But neither of us would get anything out of it."

Marian heaved a sigh and stretched out over the sleek covers on Ola's bed. Ola, not in the mood to help Marian learn to play with his magic, had tried to get the halfling to leave by complaining about headaches and saying his chest was bothering him. Marian, however, wasn't one to leave a man in solitude.

"You'd make him happy," he offered, even as Ola's expression tightened, "Being as he's one of our hosts, it would be the least you could do in thanks."

Ola rubbed at his temple, "I don't think that's the case." He looked down at the forest again, watching as Jorth slipped out of sight among the trunks, "He wants to puzzle me out, to unravel me like string, much like the Unicorn did."

Marian sat up on the bed, "You think it just wanted to understand you?" His tone was sceptical.

Ola didn't reply. Talking of the Unicorn brought up the memories of that winter wind breathing down his neck, those eyes draining his energy and of the moonlit spiral of a horn pricking the skin of his chest, driving towards his heart.

"Whistler's more frightening than the Unicorn," he said softly, "Because his desires might change; the Unicorn's can't."

"So you don't talk to him because he scares you?" Marian considered Ola through narrowed eyes, "That doesn't sound like you. Not at all."

Ola looked back at Marian and something akin to worry clouded the halfling's face. Marian slid off of the bed and went to Ola's side. He took hold of Ola's chin and turned his face up towards his own, brushing pale gold bangs out of Ola's eyes; the cross pin had never been found after the Unicorn's chase. His hands were like ice. Marian's eyes searched Ola's face, as if he was looking for something but wasn't sure what.

"You don't look right," he said simply, "Have you been sleeping?"

Ola pushed Marian's hand away, "I don't  _look_  right because I'm  _not_  right." He let out a long sigh and dug his fingers into his hair, staring down at his bent knees, "I'm not who I'm supposed to be, not completely." The pain in his chest flared up for a moment and then died down to a dull throb, one that could be ignored. "I feel like I've been split in two; one half is still the Nation and the other half is a man called Ola Nordmann, who studies magic and has nightmares he can't explain but the Nation can."

"And both of them are watched by King Merari," Marian said. Ola looked up at him to see a thin smile, "Yes, I noticed too. He's hardly subtle."

Ola swung his legs round so that they hung over the edge of the window sill. His heels knocked against the starry wall. Without a mirror, he couldn't see himself but his eyes had changed; whilst still a deep, dark blue, they had the shallowness of a human life, a life without all the experience of the immortal Nation. Marian swallowed.

"What do I want to find here, Marian?" Ola said with a hollow laugh, "This tower can't tell me anything and I doubt that it hides much. I knew what I wanted here not long ago but…" He snapped his fingers, "Gone."

"The Nations," Marian whispered, so that Merari would not hear, wherever he was listening from, "Your friends, your family. You came to set them free from whatever holds them and return the world to the way it should be. I turned you into a human to protect you from the Unicorn that hunted them down. You are the last Nation."

Very slowly, the depth and age started to fill Ola's eyes again, until they were as old as the sky and the moon. His expression changed from one that was lost and vulnerable to one that was closed off and cold. For a moment, he looked like the Nation who Marian had met in Mercury's carnival. The deep-seated ache returned to Ola's chest, hitting him with the force of a truck, knocking the breath from his lungs for a moment.

An icy wind blew through the tower, spiralling from the ground up as the Unicorn breathed a deep sigh. The tower countered with a soft sigh of its own, shifting the galaxies in its walls downwards; Jupiter slid down the opposite wall, taking up the entire space with its vast size. Both Marian and Ola watched it move.

"I have to go to him," Ola said, "Before I'm Ola forever. I have to go, even if all the others are long gone and the world is to be turned over to the Fair Folk." He paused, "Downside is, I don't know where he is or how to get to him."

"If it's any assurance, I don't know either. Nor does Jorth," Marian's eyes hardened with determination, "But I'll find it; I'll find a way to the Unicorn for you."

"It's a nice thought, Marian," Ola said, "But you couldn't even find this tower, let alone a unicorn made of mist and moonlight."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Marian said, waving a hand, "I'll have you know that my mo-"

The tower trembled as the Unicorn screamed, the sound cutting through Marian's sentence and piercing Ola's eardrums, freezing him in terror. Before his eyes, he could already see the glowing mist of the Unicorn's mane, the moonlit twist of horn.

"Hey!" Marian's voice came thin, "Ola! Hey!"

Ola blinked and shook his head. There was no Unicorn in front of him; only poor Marian who, he realised, was looking much older than when they'd met. The remains of baby fat had melted away from his face and he seemed to fit his long limbs now.

"When did I meet you, Marian?" he asked, brow furrowed.

"Ah," Marian was caught off guard by the question, "Late spring, I think? We were east of here, I remember that much."

"And now summer is ending," Ola exhaled and his breath came out in a small puff. The ache in his chest thumped again and he thumbed the spot over his newest scar, "I've been away from home for far too long."

"Do you wish you hadn't left?"

"I don't know," Ola said, leaning his head against the cold glass behind him, "My life is definitely a lot quieter without the other Nations around, especially a particular blond idiot I know. And is the world really worse off without us?"

"Maybe not," Marian said, picking up his coat from where he'd dumped it, "But you were getting lonely. Why else would you have left when you did?"

Ola didn't have a reply. Marian slung his coat over his shoulder and left Ola on his own, the tower rumbling with another of the Unicorn's heavy sighs.


	16. Chapter 16

"Does your father ever eat?"

Whistler looked up to see Ola watching him across the table. He turned his fork over in his hand and shrugged, knowing that both Jorth and Marian had frozen; Ola rarely spoke around Whistler and almost never directly to him, especially with other people around.

"Of course he eats," Whistler said, "Just…not with you."

"And yet you do," Ola mused, "And then you complain that I think you're spying."

"Ola!" Jorth chastised, "You should be grateful that you haven't been turned out into the Wild Wood."

"You say that I'm spying," Whistler said, barrelling on and ignoring Jorth, "But at least I see  _you._ Who do you see, when you look at me with those eyes?"

Ola looked taken aback, his expression suddenly open and vulnerable. Marian coughed in a weak attempt to dispel tension, as well as to insert himself into the conversation.

"I think," he said slowly, "That maybe Jorth and I should, let yo—"

"No, Marian, it's fine," Whistler said, standing, "You're guests; you have guest's right. I'll go, since I make Ola so uncomfortable."

He retreated from the kitchen and he could hear Jorth scolding Ola as he left. He tossed his hair out of his face and rolled his eyes; that fact that someone with such old eyes could be so childish was a marvel to him.

Rather than linger in the hallways or trail off to his own chambers, Whistler instead headed towards the throne room. Wind whispered through the hallways, as if the tower's breaths had slowed into the steady calm of sleep. The wall to his father's throne room split into a small archway to admit him and he ducked through.

Merari stood at the window. His wings glowed white and, when he turned, there were galaxies in his eyes. Whistler stooped into a steady bow and Merari nodded in response, beckoning Whistler to his side. Outside of the window, the forest shifted and waves crashed against the cliff face.

"Something on your mind?" Merari asked, looking back out across the land outside his tower, "You never seek me out like this anymore."

"Am I not allowed to find my dear father anymore?"

Merari gave him a sideways glance, "You haven't called me father in a long time."

Whistler sighed, "Your fine guests are what's on my mind."

"And by that, I'm assuming you don't mean the troll," Merari butted his forehead against the window, "Nor the half fey boy. What is it about Ola Nordmann that has gotten underneath your skin?"

"I'm just…trying to work him out," Whistler said, feeling stripped bare, "He's strange."

"He is a remnant. You shouldn't let yourself be distracted by him."

"I don't think I'm distracted."

"Before he came," Merari said slowly, "You never neglected your duties. You were a good scout. Now he is here and you've lost your edge." He cocked his head like a bird's, "Even when I first picked you up out of the snow, you never neglected what I asked of you."

"I'm sorry," Whistler said, cheeks burning.

"Don't be," Merari dismissed it with a wave of his hand, "You have to learn to properly deal with distractions if you are to be a successor to the tower." His eyes glinted and, when he rolled his shoulders, his wings sent a shower of silvery-white powder onto the smooth floor, "I confess, I've found myself trying to riddle him out myself."

He clapped Whistler on the shoulder, "Don't allow him to overwhelm you, Whistler."

On that note, he swept out of the throne room, comets trailing in his footsteps. Whistler watched him go and his chest felt heavier than usual. As always, his father left him feeling more lost and with more questions than he'd started with. He looked back out of the window and, for a moment, it wasn't his familiar reflection that looked back; the loose curls were gone and his eyes were bright blue rather than brown. He blinked in surprise and, in a split second, it was his own face again.

"I need to sleep," he muttered, "But first, defences."

He retrieved his staff from his quarters and slowly made his way down to the base of the tower. When he reached the split of the door, he jerked to a halt; Ola was waiting there, leaning against the vortex of a black hole. The shine of magic had left him and, rather than looking ancient, his eyes looked haggard.

"I came to apologise," he said, "I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did."

Whistler fidgeted with his staff, "Where are Jorth and Marian?"

Ola lifted his eyes, "Where you left them, I think. I didn't stay long after; I wanted to look for you. I really am sorry."

"It's nothing," Whistler said, stepping forward and pressing a hand against the wall to open it, "Care to join me? I'm warding the tower."

Ola's small, rare smile appeared, "Sure, why not?"

He stepped out of the tower in Whistler's wake, the tower slowly sealing itself behind them. Ola trailed Whistler in the blue light of the moon, watching as he struck the end of his staff against six separate points around the tower. With each strike, the twilight tower fizzed, as if struck by lightning.

"Your own magic or your father's?" Ola asked when he was done, eyes shining with fascination.

"My father's," Whistler said, "I'm strangely inept with magic."

"And yet, you gave me advice for Marian," Ola said, his voice warm with mirth.

Whistler shrugged, "My father tried with me."

He sat down on the top step leading up to the tower and laid his staff at his side, resting his chin in his hands, elbows balanced on his knees. He felt Ola approach him like a frightened animal, cautious of traps, and sit alongside him. Whistler risked a glance and he saw that Ola's eyes still held that shallow, human youthfulness.

"Your father," Ola said slowly, "He's…strange."

"How so?"

"Well, he's cold; from my experience, what little there is and what little I remember, fathers are meant to be warm," Ola's hand tangled in his hair, "And he's so different to you. Where he's dark, you're light. Where he's distant, you're up close. It's strange."

"Maybe I take after my mother," Whistler gnawed on his lower lip, "Not that I remember much of her."

"At least you have memories."

"You don't?" Whistler felt something fracture in his chest.

Ola's brow furrowed, "I have…pieces. I'm not sure if their memories or fragments of dreams. The only things I'm sure of are Jorth and Marian, and even then, I have memories of Jorth that go back too far in time. I know I've known her for centuries but that can't be possible." His frown deepened, "And sometimes, I have memories of someone who is me but who isn't me; someone old and powerful. Someone who can't exist but I feel like they did, and very recently."

He laughed a little, "You must think I'm insane."

"No, just muddled." Whistler gestured behind him, "The tower might be having an effect on you; it might be mixing someone else's memories in yours."

"I'm not so sure. I  _feel_ that these memories are mine, if that makes sense." Ola shook his head and pressed a hand to his forehead, "It's not just those either. There are memories of people who I have met but haven't, people whose names I know but those names slip through my hands like smoke." He looked directly at Whistler and, for one brief moment, there was a glimpse of that unfathomable age again, "You asked me earlier who I saw when I looked at you?"

Whistler nodded, "You didn't answer."

"I see  _you_ ," Ola said, "I'm not sure if I did before. I think I saw someone that I used to know."

"Well, if you see me now, I'm happy with that." Whistler said with a silly grin.

Ola's face relaxed back into a smile, "You're a forgiving sort."

"Because I think I understand you," Whistler said, plucking at his staff again, "I haven't always been here." He glanced over his shoulder but the tower remained shut, "Merari isn't really my father. He found me wandering the road a while back with no memory; I didn't even have a name. He named me Whistler for the winter wind and brought me here. That's why I call him father. He's the only one I know."

Ola shuffled closer and didn't flinch away, instead pressing against Whistler's arm, "So we're more similar than we thought."

Whistler turned and he found himself staring straight into Ola's eyes, their foreheads near enough touching. His throat worked against itself and he could only choke out, "How's your heart now?"

Ola's hand found the spot over his heart, "Much better, thank you." His forehead bumped Whistler's and he closed his eyes, lashes dark against the pale purple of the shadows beneath his eyes.

Whistler reached up to brush some of Ola's hair away from his eyes, "I'm glad to hear it."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this is my last update this month and then updates might be a little slower again 'cause I have to write hard bits. This is just Marian and Jorth and it doesn't contribute much; just some filler filling in some backstory via the magic of...talking. A lot of talking.

Marian sat hunched over his tarot cards, painstakingly repainting the faded colours, retracing old lines and breathing new life into the tiny pictures that patterned the cards' faces. The cards had belonged to his father, when he'd read futures for the bemused faeries who haunted their house like ghosts.

"You'll ruin your back," Jorth said behind him. Her hands rested on his shoulders and pulled them back, straightening his spine. Something popped in his back and he winced. "Better?"

"A little," he rolled his shoulders, holding his brush aloft. The Hanged Man swung from a fraying rope on the card, the wet paint gleaming slightly in the milky light of the stars.

"Your mother's?" Jorth asked, leaning over and picking up the Star. The card was painted a deep, rich purple, with a ring of stars circling a woman's silhouette.

Marian snorted, "No. Faeries think the tarot are silly magic, child's play. These were my father's." He tapped the card in Jorth's hand, "He painted my mother into them, though. That's her."

"She's in all of them?"

Marian gestured to the rest of the deck, "Every woman painted here, he based on her."

Jorth's smile was as soft as sunlight, "He must have loved her very much."

"More than life itself," he paused, setting his brush down and fingering the edge of the Hermit, "He wasted away for love of her."

"And did she love him?"

"In her own way," Marian picked up the Lovers card, "This is the only one she painted. She said she wanted to make him immortal and happy forever. So she painted him here, with her."

The card depicted a man and a woman huddled together in the golden curve of the moon. He was sleeping, with olive skin and dark curls shadowing his face, wrapped in the woman's pale arms. Her hair fell down in a tangle of gold, her head crowned with thorns, her ears pointed. His expression was one of deep contentment, and hers was tender with love. It was Marian's favourite of the whole deck, and the one whose colours he had replicated the most faithfully.

"I used to read the tarot for Mercury," he said, "For his customers. The humans liked it enough, but the fey laughed at me. And they said my parents should be ashamed, that someone with faery blood was still playing at being fortune teller at my age." His mouth twitched in a cynical smile, "It's the only magic I can really do."

"You can do magic," Jorth said, sitting alongside him, her tail running across the smooth floor, "It's no small feat to conjure up dead gods, to turn a Nation into a mortal man. You're more than you think you are."

They both fall silent. Marian washed off his paint brush and left it submerged in the dirty water. He ignored the stinging burn in his eyes, the tightness of his throat, when memories of his father started to creep in: his father sitting him on his lap and reading to him from an ancient book of fairy tales; his father letting him stand on his shoulders to reach the best apples on his grandmother's tree; his father holding up the Magician card to him in front of a roaring hot fire, saying, " _This will be you one day, my Marian. You'll be a hero and every nation in the world will know your name."_

"Don't cry, Marian," Jorth said softly, and he jumped slightly when she swiped the tears away with her rough sleeve, "People say faeries can't tell an untruth; they can, when they don't know that what they're saying is a lie." She pulled him close and his fingers curled in her shift, "I can't say that you'll never be anything more than a fortune teller because I  _know_ you are more than that, and that makes it a lie."

Marian let out a watery choke, "You're acting like a second mother."

"I am a mother," Jorth said, and she pressed her cheek to Marian's crown, "You never stop, even when your children have grown up and left to forests of their own." She paused, "Why did ye never say ye read tarot?"

Marian pulled away from her, "It wasn't important. Besides, I doubt the Nation would have been interested." He frowned, "Not that he's interested in anything but Whistler anymore."

Jorth hummed in the back of her throat, "I won't begrudge Ola his young love. I just hope he remembers himself and why we're here. I can't trawl that forest forever."

"There's nothing there?"

"Nothing I've found so far. But I'll keep looking. And what about your own search?"

"Nothing," Marian rested his chin on his hand and looked over his tarot, "Sometimes, I wonder if the Unicorn was even real." His smile turned dark, "And then I see the scar on his chest and I remember that feeling of my magic and I know I want to see it again, just for a chance to pull my magic back for a third time." A pleasant shiver ran up his spine, "It's like nothing I've ever felt before."

"Ah, now, don't let power eat you too much," Jorth said, the warning explicit in her voice, "Else you'll become like Merari; cold, isolated and lonely."

Marian raked at his hair, "How did you meet him?"

"Ola?" Jorth's mouth twitched, "When you made him."

"No," Marian huffed, "The Nation."

"Oh. It's been so long, it's hard to remember." Jorth scratched behind her long ear, "He was much, much younger; still in childhood, I believe. My first was still a babe at the breast and I looked after them both for a while before he went on his own way. He always came back to me, though." Her face clouded, "When he stopped, I was worried and I…I left my home. Then I met the herd and we found each other again. If I had known he was the last, or even that he was alone, I would have gone to him, rather than leave."

"And now we're both losing him," Marian stood and went over to the lone window in the room, looking down. He could see two blond figures kissing in the shadow of the tower and his stomach twisted, "Which is my fault." He looked over his shoulder at Jorth, "Did you know his scars are fading?"

"Yes," Jorth said, and she fidgeted with the tarot, stacking the dry cards, "Don't you blame yourself, Marian. You did what you had to do. You didn't know what would happen."

"Which is half the problem," he inclined his head thoughtfully, "Perhaps people who don't know their magic shouldn't be playing with it."

"So how do you suggest you learn it?"

"There should be schools for it."

Jorth laughed, "Schools indeed! Maybe when this is all over, you can set one up. I would support it."

"You might be the only one," Marian said, looking at his hands, "I can't imagine many parents being willing to send their children to a school run by me." His chest heaved in a sigh, "I should go down and talk to him, remind him why he's here. If it wasn't so risky, I'd write it down for him."

"You think Merari reads your writing?" Jorth asked, alarmed. Her mind wandered to the sheaves of paper she'd poured her heart on to; all her worries for Ola, for Marian, for the Nation she feared lost.

"I know he does," Marian replied, "No respect for privacy. I doubt that we've written anything he doesn't already  _know;_ for all his talk of secrets, I really don't think there's much point in trying to keep them here."

"If he's going to know all of ours, that only makes me more determined to dig up some of his," Jorth said firmly, standing and folding her long arms over her chest, "I'm certain that the other Nations are here somewhere."

"Why's that?"

"A bit of a hunch. The king knows what Nations are and he knows who Ola is. You can see it in his face."

"I wouldn't know," Marian said, "I don't see his face much."

"Nej," Jorth said, and she gave his cheek a gentle tug, "You just don't look hard enough."

Marian batted her hand away and rubbed at his sore cheek, "He scares me, that's why."

"He's nothing to be scared of, treasure," Jorth said, looking down at Whistler and Ola. They'd stopped the kissing but were still entwined, a briar and a rose, foreheads pressed together and hearts beating side by side.

"You say that now," Marian said, turning his liquid dark eyes to her, "But I think that's just because we know nothing about him."


	18. Chapter 18

Jorth actually liked being in Merari’s forest. It reminded her of the forests at home; thick and quiet, heavy with its solitude and singing with magic. She kept quiet as she walked beneath the trees, her tail sweeping the leaves behind her. She looked back at the glistening tower behind her, rigid as a rod, the tip shrouded in winter cloud despite the warmth of the late summer. It glittered. She couldn’t see any trace of Marian or Ola but a fluttering of moth’s wings caught her attention near the mid-point of the tower. Whistler sat on the steps, whittling something that she couldn’t see.

It seemed that all was all right in the Twilight Tower.

She went further in amongst the trees. The light above her head turned from summer gold to a soft leafy green. The moss underfoot was as soft and deep as velvet, whilst the air smelled damp and cool. Overhead, one of the ravens that trailed Ola crowed.

“Morning, Huginn,” Jorth said, nodding. The raven ruffled its feathers had hopped from branch to branch, following her along the path, “Where might your brother be this morning?”

The raven alighted on her shoulder and turned its head towards the tower, eyes bright as beetles even in the gloom of the forest. Jorth followed its gaze to see a black dot circling the tower. It fluttered against a spot on the tower for a moment before turning and dipping into the forest. Jorth raised an eyebrow.

“Locked out? Poor thing.”

She continued along the game trail with Huginn croaking on her shoulder. Despite the beauty of the day, there was an uncertainty bubbling in the pit of her stomach, as if she was walking into something that would even make one of the Night fey’s toes curl.

“What do you say, Huginn?” she asked, hesitating, “Do you think it’s just this forest playing with me?”

The raven snapped its beak again. Jorth reached up to stroke the gleaming black chest.

“And what brings you away from Ola’s side?” she said, stepping over a bridge of roots, “You and poor, lost Munin are usually inseparable from him.”

She looked back and saw, through the thick blanket of branches, that the fluttering dot of a raven had gone.

The narrow path opened up into a soft, grassy clearing that rang with the gentle sweetness of bird song. Jorth sighed. She’d hoped that this new trail would lead her to something that would bring her to the other Nations, to something that would help her bring Ola back to himself. Instead, it had simply led to something she’d seen countless times.

Huginn groaned deep in his chest and pulled on her braid with his beak, pulling her to look to her left. A grey figure stood swathed in the shadow of the trees. There was no staff in his hand and he didn’t move, even when Jorth approached.

“Strange place to put a statue,” she murmured, “One would think it would be where people could see it. Well, unless Merari just grew his forest around it.”

Her hand ran over what would have been soft stretches of fabric and she marvelled at the level of detail; every stitch and hem had been rendered in stone. The face, frozen in an angry grimace, was strangely familiar to her and she traced the carved shape of the man’s face and glasses, wondering.

“My apologies, my stony friend,” she said, “But you are a wonderfully detailed work of art.”

She stepped round to examine the rear side of the statue and promptly nearly tripped over the second statue right behind it. This one was of a child, who had his hand balled in the fabric of the man’s coat, the man’s arm outstretched as if trying to shield him. Stooping down to examine the second statue, Jorth felt a thud of realisation in her chest like a roll of thunder. She stood and peered around the rest of the clearing, Huginn fidgeting on her shoulder, the sick and uneasy feeling heaving in her belly.

All around, standing in the gloom, were countless human statues, everyone one of them detailed from the crowns of their heads to the soles of their feet.

“Huginn,” she said, “Fly back and tell Marian that we have found one piece of our puzzle.”

 

* * *

 

“There seem to be many distractions in my tower as of late.”

Ola jerked in surprise when Merari approached him. He’d been lying in the grass outside of the tower, stretched out like a cat in the sun, watching Marian read tarot for a group of fauns who’d lost their way. Now, Marian was gone, and Ola was blinking sleepily at the sweet-smelling grass, Merari looming overhead. He turned and brushed grass blades from his face.

“Your Majesty?” he said, shading his eyes from the sun with one hand, “I don’t really understand what you mean.”

Merari gestured for Ola to stand and he did so, shaking loose grass and soft clover from his clothes. Merari scanned him up and down.

“Marian is distracted from his magic,” he said eventually, “Whistler finds himself distracted from duty by you.” His mouth curled into a mirthless smile, which sent a chill down Ola’s spine just as easily as a winter frost, “And you…what is it you find yourself distracted from?”

Ola looked to the sky. The thick autumn sunlight lit up the wispy clouds and the turning leaves made the world gold.

“I don’t think that I’m distracted by anything,” he said, looking back to meet Merari’s steady gaze, “But, then again, I don’t really have anything to be distracted from.”

At that, Merari’s eyes hardened and froze. He folded his arms and his wings twitched in irritation.

“I can’t tell if you’re simply lying to save your skin or if you are trying to mock me,” he said, “Walk with me.”

He seized hold of Ola’s elbow and steered him towards one of the forest’s paths. It was wended beneath the trees like it had been unravelled, a dark spool of thread winding through the forest. Ola picked his way over roots and branches, not wanting to be dragged over the prickling floor. It was clearly a path that Merari knew well.

“The wind’s still,” he said, abruptly stopping and letting go of Ola’s arm. Ola pulled away from him and pressed against a nearby oak, “Can you feel them?”

There was a mad glint in his dark eyes. Ola regarded him cautiously; there was a hum of danger around him that had never been present before. He’d never looked more distant from Whistler.

“I don’t feel anything,” Ola said, “Are you feeling all right, your Majesty?”

Merari scowled again, “Now I know you’re mocking me.” He stepped forward and gripped Ola’s jaw, turning his head to look down the path, “They’re right down there but you’re telling me you can’t feel them? Everyone who is like you, who has ever been like you, is in this forest.”

Ola arched his head back and jerked back out of Merari’s grip, “Please, sire, don’t touch me.”

Merari just rolled his beetle black eyes and continued along the path. Ola’s feet carried him along behind the faery king, whether he wanted to follow or not. The birds sang their warnings but Ola didn’t hear them. Merari stopped at the edge of the clearing and he grabbed Ola’s elbow again, squeezing tightly enough to hurt.

“There they are,” he said reverently, “Now do you feel them?”

Ola cast his gaze across the clearing but all he saw was a group of statues, scattered amongst the trees. He frowned. He could admire the workmanship but there was nothing particularly special about them; not even his magic rang for them, which spoke volumes about the quality of any enchantment placed on them.

“Still nothing,” he said but Merari didn’t seem to hear. There was a look in his eyes that Ola found uncomfortable.

“I like to walk among them,” Merari said softly, as if Ola had never spoken, “When I do, I feel so much pride.” His voice reverberated with an emotion Ola couldn’t name, and his smile twists with something he can’t touch, “The first I caught, I never intended to keep like this. But then, I saw that my fellows, the Folk in her lands…they were safer. They were _happier._ The humans were less of a threat to them; they could _grow.”_ His eyes brightened further, “It was then I realised. I could protect my people, I could further my people, and the price would only be personifications who are obsolete.”

Ola swallowed and stepped back when Merari looked at him. Long hands found his shoulders and white wings beat as he was pushed back against an oak tree. He desperately wished he’d thought to keep his wand on him but it was safely stashed in his back in his rooms.

“You are the last,” Merari whispered and his breathing ghosted over Ola’s face, both hot and cold at the same time, “The last prize. The last of your kind. The last Nation. I find it strange how you managed to evade me for so long and yet walked straight on to my doorstep just as I was starting to doubt that I could have you as well.”

The king’s hands bruised Ola’s shoulders and he turned his face away.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Ola said stiffly, avoiding those unearthly eyes, “There’s nothing special about your statues.”

“Do you deny your friends?” Merari asked, “Do you deny the truth of who you are? _Do you deny your people?!”_ His fingers dug into Ola’s shoulders and shoved him down, “I’ll turn you to stone here and now, if that’s what it takes to wring the truth out of you!”

“Leave him alone!” Whistler’s voice rang as clear as a tolling bell and Merari was jerked back as Whistler hauled on his cloak.

His face was a white mask of protective anger, one that only slipped for a moment when he saw the grey statues among the trees, shifting to a look of horrified realisation, as if some horrid truth had slammed into him like a wave on the sand. But when he saw Ola on the leaf litter, huddling away from Merari, the anger returned and he set himself between Ola and Merari like a wall.

Merari’s nostrils flared, “Of course, you choose to protect him.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Whistler said, and there was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before, though it sounded like it belonged.

“His end will come as surely as your own,” Merari said, stepping back into the gloom of the trees behind him, his eyes glinting, two wet pools in the cool autumn shade, “It’s only fitting that the pair of you come to it at the same time.”

When he was gone, Whistler turned to Ola, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Ola was jarred by the memory of his first time in the tower, when he was more himself but almost definitely not who he was now, but this time he accepted and allowed Whistler to pull him close.

“Your father’s mad,” he whispered against Whistler’s chest, feeling heavy fingers comb through his hair. He couldn’t see the expression on Whistler’s face, the expression that spelt out the war going on in the other’s mind.

They stayed in the forest for a long while, surrounded by grey statues, clinging to each other like men drowning in separate storms.

 


	19. Chapter 19

“The question is,” Marian mused, “Why didn’t Merari do something before if he’s known who Ola is all along?”

They’d retreated away from the tower, huddling into a little clearing along the road that led to the glittering pillar. Jorth had stolen a bundle of food and supplies from the kitchen after Whistler had come to them, telling them everything that had happened in the forest with Merari and the statues. Ola had come in soon after, his belongings on his back.

Jorth huffed and set down the chipped ceramic mugs of tea, “I don’t care. I care about the fact that Merari thought he had the right to put hands on him.”

“It’s fine, Jorth,” Ola said quietly, turning to look at her. “It was a wakeup call, and a necessary one. I’d forgotten why we came.” His eyes turned downcast, “I’d forgotten my friends.”

Jorth’s smile was tight, “It wasn’t his place. He has no right to you.”

“He has no right to a lot of things,” Whistler said and, while there his tone was harsh, there was a strange sadness and longing, “But he takes them. He took the world.”

“You could say no one has a right to take that,” Marian said, “Because, you know, it’s hard to say you own the world.”

Ola leant in to kiss Whistler’s cheek before he stood and grasped at Marian, tugging him away from their makeshift camp. The chipped mug Marian had been holding fell and spilt hot, fragrant tea onto the forest floor.

“Ola--” Jorth started but Ola shushed her with a wave of his hand.

“I just need to talk to him,” he said, ignoring Marian’s questioning look.

A few paces from the clearing, just far enough that they were out of earshot, Ola stopped beneath an oak tree. He fidgeted with his hands.

“I need you to put me right,” he said and the Nation was in his voice.

Marian blinked, “I…Ola, I can’t. I don’t know _how_.”

“You have to try,” Ola urged. He bit his lip and a veil of worry dropped over his face, “I need to be who I was.”

“What if the Unicorn comes again?” Marian asked, “Then what happens?”

Ola didn’t answer. He glared down at the forest floor, his fingers furling and unfurling like ferns, grappling with himself over something Marian couldn’t soothe.

“I’m sorry you lost one of your ravens,” he offered lamely. He nodded to where the remaining bird roosted overhead.

Ola glanced up, “Munin. It doesn’t matter; he wasn’t really mine anyway.”

“Still…” Marian trailed off, unable to find the right words. “We should go back.”

There was a definite slump in Ola’s shoulders that made Jorth give Marian the type of questioning look that made his insides wither in shame. He retrieved the cup out of the dirt and wiped it off, handing it to her again.

“I’ll go and, I dunno, find some branches for fire,” he gave her a hopeful look, “Or maybe you could make one of those little huts again?”

Jorth’s face softened, “Of course, treasure. Don’t go far.”

She flattened down a lock of hair that the wind had tugged out of place before she turned to Ola. Marian slipped away through the trees, coat hugged tight across his shoulders against the bitterness of the autumn wind. The light spit of rain danced on his cheeks. He felt hollow, the lack of magic and his inability to change anything gnawing at his insides like the winter chill on his father’s herb garden. He didn’t even notice he was being followed until she spoke.

“Don’t go into the woods, don’t let go of my hand. Don’t go into the woods, do you understand?”

He flinched when a hand touched his shoulder, stumbling over a tree root and nearly pitching head first into the muddy mess of leaves at his feet. He grabbed hold of a hanging branch to steady himself, the rubbery bark stinging his hands, and he whipped round to glare at who’d touched him.

It was a pixie, dark blue with wings the colour of winter’s first snow. Her eyes were pools of deep blue ink.

“What do you want?”

She blinked those enormous eyes, “I am…I am searching. Nation: A large body of people united by common descent, history, culture, or language, inhabiting a particular state or territory. Personification: a figure intended to represent an abstract quality.”

“Nation,” Marian said, “You’re looking for Ola?” He narrowed his eyes; she might be related to Merari somehow, “How do you know Ola?”

“Don’t you remember? We’ve met before,” the pixie said, her hands twisting, “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream--”

“I’m not Ola,” Marian cut in, “We don’t know each other.”

“Ola,” she scrunched up her face, as if the name left a nasty taste on her tongue. She was quiet for a long moment and Marian could practically see her brain working, fighting against her own nature to get the right words out, “Unicorn. Still looking for the Unicorn?”

“Yes!” Marian said, wanting to leap forward and grasp for her hands, “Do you know where we can find it?”

The pixie fidgeted from foot to foot, “Careful with what you say; even the trees are on his side.”

“The Unicorn,” Marian dropped his voice, “Can you tell me if you know how to find it?”

Her lips twitched, “Nothing on our hearts and tears on our threads. For we know the last unicorn is dead.” She shook her head when she saw him getting irritated, “I can’t tell _you.”_

The rain had turned from a shower to a downpour, fat cold drops of it falling onto Marian’s head, soaking into his hair. It crept down his back like cold fingers and his coat hung about him like wings. The pixie retreated underneath the broadest branch she could to keep dry, even while water matted Marian’s hair to his head.

Of course she couldn’t tell him. What was he compared to a Nation, to an ancient troll, to a faery prince?

“Will you tell Ola?” he asked. She nodded, “Then I’ll show you where he is.”

His boots squelched in the mud that sucked his feet down and clung to him. The pixie’s steps were soft delicate things, like deer in the spring.

“If my love were an earthly knight,” she was reciting, “As he’s an elfin grey, I wad na gie my ain true love for nae lord that ye hae.” She hopped forward to tap Marian’s shoulder, “Your papa was a faery knight, yes?”

“No. He was a human.”

“Hmm, oh, perhaps something else from Child?”

“I don’t think Mr. Child picked up any ballads about faeries like my mother.”

“Such a shame.”

Marian pushed aside the branches that hung in front of the clearing, “Jorth?”

Jorth was on him like a mother cat on her smallest kitten. She pushed his sopping hair out of his face and tugged him towards the shelter she’d bent out of branches, clucking in disapproval.

“You’ll catch yer death,” she said, “And you didn’t bring the wood you said you were getting.”

“No but,” Marian wrested himself out of her hold, “I brought her.”

He pointed to where the pixie lurked under the trees, wings hugged close to keep the rain off of them. She furrowed her brow when she saw Jorth was staring.

“She says she knows where the Unicorn is,” Marian explained, dropping his voice low.

Jorth ushered Marian down into the shelter and out of the rain before going to retrieve the pixie. Marian found himself practically atop Whistler’s knees, sprawled across the ground.

“I’m flattered Marian,” Whistler said, whispering because Ola had dozed off against his shoulder, “But ya not my type.”

“What, I thought you went for the lost skinny magic type,” Marian said, getting to his knees.

Whistler looked down at Ola, “Touché.” One hand curled against his knee and his face was touched with an awkwardness that Marian had never seen there before, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, though I don’t know whether I’ll have an answer for you.”

“If you felt that you were meant to be a certain way,” Whistler said slowly, pondering his words, “But there was something there keeping you from being that way, what would you do?”

“There’s little I can do,” Marian said, taking the ash wand that Ola had carved for him, twirling it between his fingers, “I’m an empty reservoir, my friend.”

There was a surge of warmth up his arm and a sensation like spider’s silk being dragged off of his arm. Whistler flinched and blinked, expression bewildered. Marian had accidentally pulled off his glamour to reveal the bright, ancient blue of his eyes. Ola barely stirred.

“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry!” Marian said, as something tugged in his chest, “I didn’t know that would happen!”

Whistler shook his head and was about to reply when Jorth ducked her head into the shelter, her braids dripping.

“Is there room in here for a pixie, treasure?” she asked, addressing Marian.

“Probably,” Marian said, inching away to make room, “But you might not be able to fit.”

Jorth waved a hand, “It’s nothing; trolls are hardy.”

The pixie crept in, her wings shivering with damp, and made a beeline for Ola. She ignored Marian and Whistler, despite crawling over Whistler’s knees, and shook Ola awake. Ola blinked and rubbed at his eyes, frowning slightly. He rubbed at his heart and glanced at Whistler before the pixie caught his attention.

“Hello again,” he said, “Did you really follow me all the way here?”

She just reached up to touch his cheek, to brush her long fingers through his fair hair, her expression mournful.

“You haven’t found it yet?” she said, head cocked, tone almost musical.

“ _Nej._

It seemed as if they only noticed the two of them. The pixie leant in to murmur into Ola’s ear and he nodded, ignoring the glances she grave to Marian. Jorth sighed and ducked back out into the rain, her tail shaking water off, keeping an eye out. Whistler just turned his head away and watched Marian with that blue gaze; he hadn’t even bothered to try and pull his glamour back. Looking into his face, Marian felt that familiar tug behind his breastbone: a longing for home; a hot fire on a winter’s night; the smell of the sea air and salty sting of fish. His eyes widened.

“ _You too?”_ he mouthed.

Whistler just nodded.


	20. Chapter 20

The road that led to the Unicorn was cold. It was a tiny winding thing that twisted through forest and split off to lead down the grey beach. The rain that had fallen earlier had turned to snow here, lying in small drifts off of the road; icy patches made walking precarious and Ola’s breath came in cold puffs, despite it all being too early in the year for any signs of winter. Ola, though, barely felt the cold.

“Scared?” Whistler asked, squeezing Ola’s fingers.

“No,” Ola said. He felt more numb than anything, as if the cold that made Marian’s teeth chatter filled the very centre of him. He broke away from Whistler and walked on ahead, head bowed. No one attempted to catch up with him and instead followed in the echo of his footsteps.

He’d dreamt about the Unicorn, and memories of it crept around the haze of his former life, swallowed and eclipsed during the day by past centuries. Nothing made sense; he’d be glad to follow where Whistler led and leave this land behind him, Jorth and Marian’s protests be damned. The world would keep turning without the Nations.

“What will you do when we find this Unicorn?” Whistler asked, keeping his voice quiet, though not enough to keep Ola from eavesdropping.

“I’ll put him back to normal,” Marian said, “And then he can go home.”

“What about the others?” Whistler said, “What will happen to them? Would you leave them as they are?”

“That’s up to him,” Jorth cut in, “They were his goal; it’s Ola’s choice.”

“But I’m sure he won’t leave them behind,” Marian said, “I’m sure he’d like to know he’s not alone.” There was a strange emphasis on the last two words.

“I won’t leave them to their fate,” he said, stopping, “But I won’t have anything to do with them after.”

“You don’t mean that,” Whistler said. His face was hurt and his tone was tight, as if pushed out past a lump in his throat. He stepped forward and gripped Ola’s arms, brushing hair from his face. He breathed cold clouds, “You know you don’t really mean that.”

Ola searched Whistler’s face and all he found there was hurt. His eyes, blue rather than the familiar warm brown, were imploring.

“I do,” he said, “If I could, I’d have them all go and I’d stay here, with you, like this.”

Whistler looked imploringly to Jorth and Marian. Jorth just looked away, her expression as pained as Whistler’s, while Marian was irritated.

“Fine,” Marian said, “If that’s what you want; I don’t think I could perform that kind of magic twice anyway. Stay with him and leave the others trapped forever.” Something rose in his voice, something as red and raw as an open wound, “Leave your people and everyone who needs you to be erased by faeries. That’s fine. It’s not like that mattered to you anyway.”

“Marian,” Jorth warned.

“It doesn’t matter to them either,” Ola said hotly, “They didn’t know me. I lived among them and they didn’t know me.”

“Some of them did!” Marian said, cheeks red, “Some of them knew you. I did! You could have lined up every man, woman and child on this earth and I would have known you.” His hand twisted in the fabric over his heart, “I looked at you and I didn’t see what they saw, what Mercury saw. I saw you and I felt like…like I was home.”

Whistler moved away and Ola could see the tears pooling in Marian’s dark eyes, sticking to his eyelashes. A small seed of sympathy planted itself in his chest but was buried under frustration and the dull ghost of an ache in his chest.

“You’re the one who made me this way,” Ola said, “If it wasn’t for you, I would still be the way I was.”

“You would be stone!” Marian exploded, and it was the first time Ola had heard him truly angry. Sulky and petulant, yes, but never angry before. A freezing wind slipped cold fingers through Ola’s hair. “You would be a statue for Merari to lord over and there would be no one like you left in the world. No one except Whistler!”

Whistler groaned, “Why did ya have to say that?”

Ola looked at Whistler, snowflakes catching in his hair, “You knew?”

“Not for long,” Whistler insisted, “Not when we met, I promise.”

Marian sniffed and dragged his sleeve over his eyes, dashing away tears, and Jorth’s hand rubbed his shoulder. Ola felt a twist of sympathy in his stomach but it only lasted a moment.

“Nation or not,” Whistler said, speaking as if Ola was the only one there, “That doesn’t change anything.” He took hold of Ola’s hand and looked relieved when he didn’t pull away, “Let’s get this over with and then we can talk.” He grinned, and it was a silly expression, one that looked as if it was lit by the sun, “When the world’s not in such danger, OK?”

“If we can get over it,” Ola muttered, “We only have Marian, after all.”

Whistler’s face tightened but he didn’t say anything. Their footsteps were muffled as the snow built up on the ground, vision obscured by flurries. Ola could hear Jorth murmuring to Marian, something soft and comforting, smoothing over the hurt. There was a whisper of breathing on the wind as mist gathered around their legs.

“You don’t mean that either,” Whistler said, “You brought him with you for a reason. Ya trusted him.”

The mist thickened around their ankles and lit up gold with moonlight. Ola froze, because he’d been in this position before, a fleeting flash of memory. He remembered the grip of icy breath and eyes of sea green.

“Ola,” Jorth started, “What’s—”

A shaft of moonlight broke through the mist and the Unicorn stared Ola down, its eyes gleaming in the light of its own horn. Ola’s heart leapt in his throat. For one short, eternal moment, they stood and the world stood still around them.   

The moment was shattered when the Unicorn lowered its head and pawed the ground, leaving a streak of frost across the earth, before it charged forward. Ola shoved Whistler to the side, sending him toppling to the ground, before he plunged off of the path and into the surrounding trees. The Unicorn chased after him, breathing snowstorms. Its hoof beats rolled like thunder and Ola’s wand dug into his hip. He twisted through the trees and the Unicorn’s horn was at his back, fear running through his veins, and he led the Unicorn on.

The voices of his companions faded behind him as he burst out of the trees and onto the abandoned road, following the cracked bitumen back towards the Twilight Tower.

* * *

 

“Do something!”

Whistler seized Marian’s shoulders and shook him, hard enough that he felt rattled. There was desperation in Whistler’s voice that thickened his accent and made his eyes wide with terror.

“Shaking him like a doll won’t help,” Jorth said, prising Whistler’s hands from Marian’s shoulders, “Don’t take it out on him.”

Marian stepped back, shoulders hunched, and looked for the trail of frost that the Unicorn had left behind. Whistler pulled away from Jorth and followed the ice, worry gnawing at every nerve. He could hear the Unicorn screaming into the night and even the stars seemed to shudder.

“Whistler!” Jorth cried, following behind him. His nails dug into his palms and he wished for nothing more than his axe. Instead, all he had was this useless, boiling anger.

“That isn’t my name!” he threw over his shoulder, the frosty grass crunching beneath his feet. It was cathartic to throw it off of him, “It’s Denmark. I am a Nation, and I will not lose any of my friends again.”


	21. Chapter 21

The muscles in his legs were seizing from cold and exhaustion and his chest ached. Ola dived down into a nook beneath some tree roots for respite, his breath tearing from his throat in chest-shaking sobs. The Unicorn snorted by, its misty tail whisking trails in the night air, and Ola pressed himself further into the dirt. The Unicorn didn't want human beings; if he could just stay hidden, it would lose interest.

But Whistler…

Whistler wasn't who he said he was. Whistler was really a Nation.

Whistler would be in danger from the Unicorn.

Ola curled his fingers against the leaf litter beneath him. He could feel frost creeping over the leaves, the damp earth hardening beneath his fingers as the Unicorn's winter spread through the forest. He took his wand form his belt but it was nothing but a thin bone of wood; there was no spark or warmth stirring and sparking to his hands. He didn't even remember losing his magic.

He edged out of his hiding place, the air smelling of snow, but before he could get to his feet, something slammed into his chest. He staggered back, the force of it snatching his breath from his lungs and making his ribs tremble. Millions of hooks latched to his heart, digging into it and  _pulling._ Old memories crashed with new and Ola could feel himself slipping. The winter wind roared as the Unicorn realised what had happened.

The Nation, knowing he had only a small head start, leapt away from the roots and back along the road to the others. The Unicorn's hooves clattered after him, always ominously close. Glancing over his shoulder, he only saw a billowing cloud, and his ankle twisted and bent when his foot caught in a crack in the bitumen. He fell onto his shoulder and rolled; attempting to stand only caused searing pain. He collapsed back down against the road and gripped his wand tightly enough to pull the skin of his knuckles tight and white against the bone. His spell as a human had slowed his healing.

He felt the Unicorn's breath before anything else. It washed over him in an icy wave and when he turned, the gleaming horn was merely inches from him. There was a sturdy foreleg on either side of him, hooves gleaming with milky light, and the velvety nose nuzzled at him. The Nation's breath stuck in his throat. He was trapped, as much by his own ankle as by the Unicorn. He could feel the tendons and ligaments in his ankle slowly mending, pulling together and fixing the damage his own carelessness had caused.

He gasped in pain when the Unicorn's horn pushed his arm away from his ribs; it was like an icicle being pressed to bare skin and held there, even as the Unicorn levelled the tip of its horn to the gap between two of his ribs. He reached out to claw at the road, kicking off with his good ankle to try and crawl away. The tip of the horn pierced his skin and he curled in agony; the cold spread through from the tiny cut, freezing his bones and frosting every cell. All this way, all Marian's magic, only for it to end here on the road…

A heavy weight slammed into the Unicorn's shoulder, knocking it to the side. Its head jerked up and the tip of the horn snapped off, jamming beneath the Nation's skin and keeping the cold waves washing over him, even when the Unicorn pranced to the side away from what had hit him.

Whistler stood protectively over him, armed with nothing but his bare fists. The Unicorn was baffled enough by this new arrival that it stood still, trying to evaluate which was the bigger threat to it. The Nation took the opportunity to push away from it, his ankle weak but supporting him, and plucked the frigid shard of the horn from his side.

"Just like you," he muttered, "Always trying to be the big hero."

"It's my job."

The Unicorn, deciding that Whistler was the bigger issue, swept its horn towards him. Whistler dodged out of the way and the Unicorn followed. Over the sound of the Unicorn's hooves and Whistler's shouted jibes, he could hear feet pounding on the road and then strong arms were around him, lifting him off the ground and squeezing him close. Jorth's voice babbled joyfully in his ear.

"You're back," she whispered, "You're back to yourself."

The Nation squirmed in her arms, trying to break away from her. Marian hovered at her elbow, looking more whole and alive than the Nation had seen him, fizzing with magic.

"Whistler," the Nation said, twisting out of Jorth's hold. He quickly corrected himself, "Danmark. I have to help."

He'd only taken one step forward when the Unicorn swung around again. The horn was gleaming red in the pale light, blood dripping down onto the road. There was a crumpled heap beneath the Unicorn's hooves, bleeding onto the ground. The world stopped for a moment.

Denmark, bleeding on the ground. Denmark, freezing from the inside out. Denmark, gored on the Unicorn's horn.

He lashes out with all the magic he can muster. The Unicorn steps back and away from Denmark as a wave of summer heat washes over it. Its mane sizzled into steam at the ends. Marian called to him but the Nation barely heard. He knew the winds of winter; he knew their harsh snow and bitter cold, how they stopped rivers and encased entire forests in silver.

He also knew how winter always bowed to the touch of summer.

He drew on the memory of long days on the sea, of racks of fish set up along the shores of the fjords. He remembered his mountains blossoming with flowers, and of tiny sunburnt hands in his own as he taught his brother to walk along the Trolltunga.

Magic blazed with the heat of summer's height. The Unicorn reared back away from it, its green eyes rolling. The Nation could feel his own magic burning his skin. The air curdled and turned humid and the Nation struck out again. Some small part of him, the part that still called himself Ola Nordmann, wanted to leave the Unicorn and go to the crumpled heap of a man on the road.

' _The world is more than him,'_ the Nation thought, ' _The world is more than me and Denmark, or Whistler and Ola Nordmann.'_

The Unicorn cried out one last time before it wheeled away into the forest. The ice it left behind melted away to trickling rivers on the road. The Nation stood firm, summer still rolling off of him in waves, until the last trace of the Unicorn had melted away. Somewhere in the forest, something cracked.

"It's done," Jorth said, somewhere behind him, "The Unicorn won't be coming back again."

The Nation stood still, heat still crawling over his skin. The newly forged connections to his country, to his people and his culture, thrummed with every heart beat. There was a distant pull on him that spoke of kinship and his stomach jolted in a way that told him he was within another's borders.

"Will you be all right?" Marian asked, and the Nation turned at the question. Marian was kneeling on the road, supporting Denmark against him with one hand pressed over the bloody hole in the other's shoulder, "This looks bad."

"You've seen how we heal," Denmark said, and his voice was hoarse and rough. He looked up at Marian with bright eyes, "You're Romanian, aren't you?" When Marian nodded, her laughed, though it was cut off by a groan of pain, "I thought so. He'll like you, I think." He beamed when the Nation approached, "God, who knew you had it in you?"

"I did," the Nation said. He knelt down at Denmark's side, "You doubted me?"

"Well, you're so frosty," Denmark teased, reaching up to pinch the Nation's cheek, "But you're a good guy. My best guy. Come here." He pulled the Nation down against his chest, ignoring the blood that soaked his shirt and smeared across the Nation's cheek. Marian coughed but Denmark ignored him.

"We need to go," the Nation said, pulling away from Denmark. Blood clotted his hair on one side. He looked at Marian, and then at Jorth, "We're not done quite yet. The others are still waiting."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the final chapter. It's been fun, guys, though I fear we may not dance this dance again for a long while. I hope you enjoyed it; if you didn't thanks for staying anyway. You've made it all worth it :)

The other Nations emerged from the clearing in ones and twos. They blinked at the mid day sun and stretched limbs that had been frozen in stone for so long. The Twilight Tower stood empty and deserted, tall and dark against the pale sky. There was no sign of Merari.

"I've never seen them all in one place before," Jorth said, and her voice was full of awe.

"I feel like I'm drowning," Marian said, licking his bottom lip. He looked as if he was being pulled in one hundred different directions at once. Jorth gave his arm a slight squeeze.

"They can have that effect, treasure," she said, "But when you meet your own, everyone else pales in comparison."

"Do you know where he is?" Marian asked. Jorth cast her eyes to where Denmark had gone to reunite with his family.

"I do," she said softly, "But he wants to be alone."

Marian huffed, "He left to come looking for them because he was alone."

"Leave him to have time," Jorth said but Marian had already stopped listening. He'd left her side to go to a man in a patchwork coat, who beamed when he approached, pulling him close and squeezing him, positively beaming with pride.

Jorth looked away. The other Nations had already peeled away from each other, looking to return to their own homes and their own people, ready to put the world back and see how much had changed. Only a few remained, including Denmark and his family. She watched as Denmark bid farewell to the same Nation she'd walked into before; Sweden, she'd been told. His son was on his back, arms wound loosely around his neck, head on his broad shoulders; his red hair gleamed like copper in the sun.

"He's gotta go home," Denmark said, approaching Jorth, "Take Bo back and everythin'." He glanced around, "Is he-?"

"He wants to be alone," Jorth said and Denmark only nodded, though his face was slightly crestfallen.

"I don't blame him," he said. For the first time, he looked towards the silent tower, "Do you think he died?"

"Merari?" Jorth shook her head, "Nej, my lamb. Where he goes is no concern of mine. Nor should it be any of yours."

"I know, I know. I should be worryin' about whether Iceland will get home OK," he sighed, "I just, I feel like there's some part of me that's still his, you know? And he did love me for a while."

"He loved you?"

"He loved the other me, I think." He smiled but there was no humour in it, "Guess Whistler was a lucky guy, huh."

"He still loves you," Jorth said, meaning the Nation, "Just in two different ways." She twisted one of her braids as she fished for the right words, "Part of him is still Ola and that part still loves-"

"The part of me that is still Whistler. I know, I get it." Denmark groaned, "Magic is the worst."

"It's not all bad," Jorth said, looking him up and down, "Where will you go now?"

"Home. My proper home," Denmark said, "I'm guessing you and Marian will as well."

Marian pulled away from his Nation, smiling; the expression made him look worlds younger. He watched as his Nation left, a cold wind through his hair, and he looked as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Jorth felt her heart swell with fondness.

"I don't know if he has one," she said, "Though he's free to come with me, if he likes." She looked down at her hands, at ragged nails and toughened fingers, "Will ye come to him again? I think he's been lonely these past years."

The smile that Denmark gave her was warm, "I'll tell him you're the one who invited me." He set off down the road, towards the tower, but paused. He turned and the sunlight caught in his hair, lighting it up pale gold, "Tell him I love him?"

Jorth felt the gentle pull of the Nation, "He knows, sir. Trust me, he knows."

 

* * *

 

Marian could still feel magic bubbling through him that night, fizzing through his blood and making him itch. He could hear Jorth's breathing: slow, steady and reassuring. He didn't want to wake her, not to just pester her about magic; she'd probably only pat his shoulder and tell him not to worry about it. So he lay still, scratching at one arm, and counting the stars overhead. They were so distant and cold; Marian longed for the walls of the Twilight Tower, when the night sky had seemed so much smaller and less impersonal.

He stood up, popping his neck, and wandered from the clearing, picking up a dropped branch and trailing it through the leaves and underbrush. The night air was cold and he shuddered in his coat.

"You stayed."

Marian couldn't help but smile when he turned to face the Nation, "So did you."

The Nation still wasn't the same as he had been before. He was less distant than before, less cold; his time as a human had softened him. He regarded Marian with eyes that were once again as old as the sky.

"I'm a little cautious about going home," he said thoughtfully, "I don't think many faeries will take kindly to the man who brought back human Nations."

Marian felt a twinge of regret, "I'm sorry. I should never have interfered."

The Nation gave him an odd look, "If you hadn't, I wouldn't have made this far. Not unless I came as a statue, anyway. I thought you knew this."

"I do but still," Marian said, fidgeting his feet, "It's not fair on  _you._ "

"Very little is fair."

The Nation sat down on a fallen log and patted the moss next to him. Marian joined him and, for a long moment, he sat in silence, looking up at the night sky, his arm warm against Marian's.

"Why did you not go with Romania?" the Nation asked, "You didn't meet him?"

"No, I did," Marian said, remembering the swell of warmth and comfort and familiarity he'd felt the minute he'd laid eyes on Romania, "But I've been away for so long, it would feel strange to go back. There's nothing for me there now." He gave the Nation a sly sideways glance, "Besides, Jorth might get lonely."

"Mm, I understand." The Nation leant forward, his elbow on his knee and his chin propped on his hand, "Maybe it will be too strange for me to go home."

Marian was startled, "You're not going back?"

"I will," the Nation said, "But maybe not for a little while. I've been away for a while and, in that time, I was human. That's a big thing to take home with me." He plucked at a thread in his pack for a moment, "Hmm, but I hope my house was taken care of. I hope they recognise me." He looked at Marian, "You've come into your magic now. Are you happy?"

"I think so," Marian said. He scratched at his arm, "It feels strange."

"Of course it feels strange. You don't unlock dormant power like that and feel the same as you did before."

"You're right." Marian felt suddenly awkward, "I really am sorry, though. I've made you feel like you can't go home."

"Nej," the Nation said softly, "You've helped to return Nations to the world, and my family along with them. However long it takes me to return home, I'll find one with them." He snorted, "Or at least until they get sick of me drinking their coffee and boot me out. But it won't be long before I return home. Don't worry about it."

He stood again and extended one hand to Marian, "Walk with me back to Jorth?"

"You want to talk to her? She's sleeping." But Marian took his hand anyway and the Nation's fingers were warm against his own.

They walked together, hand in hand, and Marian realised that the Nation was holding on to him just as much as he held on to the Nation. Leaves crunched beneath their feet and wind nipped at the points of Marian's ears but he barely cared. The Nation's blond hair was capped in silver from the moon.

"I'll miss you, I think," the Nation said, stopping at the edge of the clearing and dropping Marian's hand, "I wasn't the best person to you but you've been a very good friend."

Light rain dotted the back of Marian's neck, soft and fine as silk, as clouds covered the moon. It beaded in his hair, tiny droplets clinging to every dark strand.

"Will I see you again?" he asked and felt stupid, "I mean, you know, if you live somewhere easy to find would you mind if I ever came to visit you?"

"I wouldn't mind at all," the Nation said, "You can show me all the tricks you learn." He looked up to the sky again and sighed, "I should get on. I have a long way to go." He rubbed Marian's shoulder, " _Tusen takk._ "

Marian didn't brush the rain from his hair as he watched the Nation leave him again. The Nation almost seemed to glow, as if he newly-returned magic and nature lit him from within. Despite that, he seemed such a lonely figure. And Marian didn't even know…

"Wait!" his feet slipped slightly on the wet leaves and the Nation stopped, turning. Jorth cursed him for waking her up, "You never told me who you really are. You never told me your name."

Behind him, Jorth laughed and the Nation's mouth was touched with a light smile.

"Norway," he said, "My name is Norway."


End file.
